


Rage

by Warp5Complex_Archivist



Category: Star Trek: Enterprise
Genre: Dark, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-03-05
Updated: 2006-03-05
Packaged: 2018-08-16 00:50:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 33,811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8080270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Warp5Complex_Archivist/pseuds/Warp5Complex_Archivist
Summary: Malcolm loses control. (09/09/2003)





	

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Kylie Lee, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [Warp 5 Complex](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Warp_5_Complex), the software of which ceased to be maintained and created a security hazard. To make future maintenance and archive growth easier, I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in August 2016. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but I may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Warp 5 Complex collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/Warp5Complex).

  
Author's notes: Spoilers, 1.04 "Strange New World," 1.06 "Terra Nova," 2.03 "Minefield," 2.22 "Cogenitor," 2.23 "Regeneration," 2.25 "Bounty."  
  
Ensigns Ian Young, Bonnie Fraiser and Stephanie Cormack were created by the Marvelous D'Nash (super thanks for letting me use them!). Ensign Ari Cohn and Crewman Virinder Singh belong to the Superlative Squeaky, who is kindly letting me use them as well. For the further adventures (or at least a mention or two) of these fine crewmembers and other cool stories, please visit DNash's and Squeaky's Web sites.  
  
I have to admit the QueeOralla were directly inspired by the aliens in the 'purification of the motive' _Longshot_ limited series by Marvel Comics from the 80s. Major in-group-geek kudos to anyone who knows what I'm talking about. The Varoshe is mine, but she's damaged anyway.  
  
Get your spelunking gear ready, kids, and make sure the lights work. This one's gonna be dark, though I promise we'll all surface again.  
  
It's also, believe it or not, in answer to a few challenges. We have: Kylie's Father's Day Challenge. You know, the one with fathers, a favorite pairing and an addition of water. There is also KageyGirl's Halloween Challenge, where there has to be someone in black leather, someone getting or giving an ass kicking, someone poisoned or under the influence of a controlled substance, and the phrase 'welcome to my nightmare.' There was extra points for working under a bright, white light. Malcolm also passes out, which should make Lieutenant Blackfire happy. ;-> And the ending is for the beloved Queen of Mean. :-D I even managed to throw my own nosebleed challenge in here without knowing it. Good for me.  
  
And it's dedicated to Squeaky, because she loved the idea and is so busy these days, and because I owe her a story involving Ian in a soaking duffle bag. It's also for Kageygirl for priceless epigraph help, knowledge fontness, wordsmithing and wonderful evilness which sadly I couldn't use. She knows what I'm talking about. ;->  
  
I also owe thanks to Shi Shi, for inspiration. For Darkness Such As the Light May Not Penetrate, one needs only to read her most recent series: Scheme of Things, which is gorgeous and excruciating.  
  
I also need to give a huge, heaping feet-kissing acknowledgement to Regina Bellatrix. A while ago I was poking around her Web site, Our Perfect Couple, and found a great Gen story called 'Dreams.' In it, among other things, Reed manages to smash the glass screen of his workstation console with his fist. That scene stuck with me long after I had forgotten where I'd read it, and eventually became the entire impetus behind this very story. I finally wandered back to the URL and found the story again. THANK YOU, RB!  
  
Now on with the ride! Remember to keep your head and arms in the car at all times, and wear your seatbelts.  
  
And the Betas for this monster are Kageygirl, Kyrdwyn, Sophia and Squeaky. For which they are all equal to several quarries of rockingness. Hopefully someday I'll actually figure out how to punctuate dialogue.  
  
And thank you to Squeaky and Red, for invaluable medical information.  


* * *

> On daze, like this  
> In times like these  
> I feel an animal deep inside
> 
> —The Sisters of Mercy, 'This Corrosion'
> 
> You wouldn't like me when I'm angry.
> 
> —Bill Bixby, _The Incredible Hulk_  
> 

PallaTul's round, bright-white furred face was practically quivering, wide opal eyes glowing with delight. Her furred, three-fingered hands clenched and unclenched—one around the armrest of her floater chair, the other around Commander Trip Tucker's arm. "Oh!" she exclaimed, mewling. "Oh, but this is wonderful! Just wonderful! What a marvelous display!"

Beside her, the three other QueeOralla floated in their own chairs, making similar mewling noises of appreciative glee. PallaNim, the one next to PallaTul, was just as white, though his eyes were bright candy-orange. Beside him were two more female QueeOralla: YulatVov and KadiGo. Their chairs were touching, the two of them holding hands. YulatVov was yellow as a flower, with eyes green as grass, whereas KadiGo was a soft dove gray with eyes like mother of pearl. To Trip they seemed like nothing so much as big, fat kittens: they were certainly just as cute, with the same kind of wiggly enthusiasm. It was hard to keep from grinning at everything they said.

"I'm glad you're enjoyin' yourself." Trip smiled indulgently at the alien. She made more of her happy mewling noises in response and squeezed his arm even harder; though her grip was so light he could barely feel it.

"Oh, I am!" PallaTul's eyes fairly gleamed, and her floater chair rocked back and forth with the movement of her arms. Her other hand flicked over a touch-pad on the armrest, and her chair floated a little higher, until her face was level with the commander's. "The way he moves...it is beautiful. Just beautiful." She gave an almost theatric sigh, one that sounded to Trip exactly like a purr. "It is enough to make me wish for a heavy body like yours, and gravity enough to use it in."

They were all in _Enterprise_ 's gym, watching Lieutenant Malcolm Reed take one of his armory personnel though combat training. He and the crewman were both off duty, but they had agreed to the demonstration for their QueeOralla visitors. The QueeOralla were intrigued by every aspect of _Enterprise_ , but what fascinated them most was the crew themselves: the QueeOralla were light-gravity worlders. They didn't walk; didn't even have legs. PallaNim had explained that on their home world they naturally floated. They used their arms to pull or push themselves from place to place. The floater chairs were a necessary invention to allow them to interact with aliens from worlds with heavier gravity. Even with the chairs, the QueeOralla still found the Earth-type gravity exhausting, and could only visit for a few hours at a time.

So humanoids were almost astounding to them; all four of the aliens had spent nearly both of the last two days with Doctor Phlox, listening avidly as he taught them about Human, Vulcan and Denobulan anatomy and physiology.

Once the small aliens had taken their fill of Phlox's lectures, they had been thrilled to examine the ship's armory and engine room. For once even Malcolm hadn't been too hard to convince to give them a tour. The QueeOralla had a higher level of technology than the Humans did; the only things that impressed them were the EM forcefield, and Malcolm himself. When they found out he was responsible for weapons and combat training, they had begun to follow him around like, well, like a litter of kittens following their momma cat. PallaTul had explained, almost sheepishly, that her people had not had a war in nearly five thousand years. Meeting a 'combative' race, as she put it, was an almost guilty treat for them. Trip figured he could understand that; it sounded a lot like why he liked horror movies.

At any rate, they were certainly enjoying themselves now. Malcolm successfully blocked a kick from Crewman Zabel, then used the other man's momentum against him and flipped him to the deck. All the QueeOralla made their thrilled mewling noises, and Trip grinned. He had to admit this had been the most enjoyable first contact so far. There was nothing like friendly aliens who were overjoyed by everything you showed them.

"I'm sorry we have to leave in the morning," KadiGo spoke up. Her floater chair made a tiny _whirring_ noise as she crossed in front of her three crewmates to hover at Trip's left side. Zabel, still on the floor, swept his feet back and managed to catch Malcolm's ankles. The lieutenant crashed to the mat and Trip winced in sympathy. All the QueeOralla mewed and clapped their little furry hands.

"I'm sorry y'all have to leave too, KadiGo," Trip answered her, though his eyes were still on the practice combat. "It's been a real pleasure teaching you about human culture an' all." Malcolm sprang to his feet again and Trip finally turned his attention to KadiGo's beautifully shimmering eyes. He smiled at her. "I just wish we'd been able to tour your ship, too."

"As do I, Commander," she said. She had moved her floater chair to his shoulder level, and had threaded her fingers into his hair. Trip let her—the QueeOralla were very touchy-feely folk. "But our ship is not designed for heavy-bodied people. There is not enough gravity for you to be comfortable, and the spaces are far too small."

"Sure," Trip nodded, though he couldn't help but feel disappointed anyway. Despite only having a crew of four, the _KibbiVolaTiep_ was nearly half the size of _Enterprise_. It was an almost featureless egg shape, as round and cutely chubby as the QueeOralla themselves. Trip would have loved to see what it looked like on the inside: how they configured the living and working space, what the engines were like. He sighed. "Maybe some other time."

With a last grunt and another hollow smacking sound of poor Zabel hitting the mat again, the match finally ended. All the QueeOralla surged forward as soon as Malcolm offered his hand to Zabel. Trip shook his head and chuckled to himself as he followed, absently smoothing down his hair.

The four aliens surrounded Malcolm, chairs whirring and all of them talking, giving purring sighs and mewling at once. Zabel caught Trip's eye and they both shared a grin as the crewman grabbed his towel and began wiping the sweat off his face and arms.

Malcolm smiled tiredly at the aliens, wiping his face and then rubbing the towel over his hair. PallaNim and YulaTov were each holding onto his forearms, and Trip had to bite his lip not to laugh as they bobbed up and down as Malcolm's arms moved. KadiGo had two of her fingers gripping delicately at the lieutenant's left ear; she was sniffing his hair in apparent fascination. PallaTul had her eyes on the towel, and Trip wondered if she was actually going to try and make off with it, like a kid at a rock concert—the QueeOralla really seemed to like Malcolm that much.

"That was just beautiful!" PallaTul gushed, "You move splendidly, Lieutenant. You are wonderfully flexible and strong."

"Thank you," Malcolm murmured. He blushed furiously, and probably would have ducked his head except that KadiGo was still hanging onto his ear. "I'm glad you enjoyed the demonstration."

"It was certainly enlightening," PallaNim said. Now he was holding onto Malcolm's fingers. He looked up at PallaTul. "Are you certain we cannot stay a day longer with these good people?" He glanced hopefully at Malcolm. "See the armory again? Perhaps another weapons demonstration?"

"I'm sorry, but we're behind schedule as it is," PallaTul said gently but firmly. Trip found himself wishing the QueeOralla would use ranks or some kind of honorific with each other, the way they did constantly with their human hosts. He would have liked to know if PallaNim was really PallaTul's brother as he suspected, since their names were similar and their fur color was the same. He was also wondering what each of the fuzzy aliens did on their massive ship; PallaTul seemed to be the captain, or at least everyone deferred to her, but he had no idea how the others worked into the hierarchy, or if there really was any kind of hierarchy at all.

PallaNim looked so forlorn that Trip almost burst out laughing. "Well, of course," he mewed sadly. "This is true. Sorry." He looked glumly down at Malcolm's fingernails, his floater chair whirring to keep him steady.

Malcolm saw PallaNim's expression, and gave Trip a wan smile. "If you would give me twenty minutes to get cleaned up," the lieutenant sighed, "I would be more than pleased to give you a final tour of the armory before you have to go back to your ship."

It was obvious to Trip that Malcolm wasn't particularly pleased to have to haul his butt back down to the armory at all, let alone play host to the four aliens yet again, but the response to his offer was such an outpouring of joy that Trip knew Malcolm could hardly have not offered one last tour. PallaNim actually hugged him, mewling deliriously. KadiGo hugged him as well, though Trip suspected that was just to get her arms around his neck. Trip was grateful that the QueeOralla weighed almost nothing even in Earth-level gravity, and that their muscles were almost non-existent, otherwise by now Malcolm would probably be choking on the deck.

Still, it was probably time for a little polite intervention. Trip stepped forward, into the small cluster of aliens. He gently pushed YulaTov out of the way so he could take Malcolm's hand. "So, y'all don't mind waiting a bit while Malcolm takes a shower?" He started walking to the gym's exit as he spoke, taking Malcolm along with him. He hoped it would help the QueeOralla get the idea.

They did, finally, letting go of Malcolm and following docilely as he and Trip walked to the door. Trip felt Malcolm give his hand a little squeeze of thanks, and he squeezed back. Normally he wouldn't be even that casual about his and Malcolm's relationship, even off duty, but Zabel had long since made his escape from the enthusiastic visitors, and the QueeOralla obviously found holding hands completely natural.

"We shall wait for you in the eating place," PallaTul said regally, and the other three aliens mewed their enthusiastic agreement. "We shall have ice cream."

"You do that," Trip grinned at them. "See you soon."

* * *

"Good lord, Trip," Malcolm sighed as soon as the door to his quarters slid shut behind them, "I wasn't sure I'd ever be able to get rid of them. I was beginning to think they'd want to watch how I showered."

"Well," Trip said, "can't say as I don't understand the attraction." He slid his arms around Malcolm's waist, hugging the lieutenant to him. He touched his lips to the back of Malcolm's neck, enjoying the salty smell of his skin. "I like to watch you in the shower too."

"Stop that," Malcolm said, "it tickles." He leaned his head back so that the sides of their faces were touching and closed his eyes. "I can't believe I offered to show them the armory again. Why did I do that, Trip?" he moaned. "Why?"

Trip laughed. "'Cause you just can't resist those cute little kitten faces lookin' at you all adoringly like that." He turned his head so he could kiss Malcolm's cheek. "And 'cause you're a beautiful, generous soul."

"Oh god," Malcolm sighed. "If I never get called 'beautiful' again it'll be too soon. I thought I was going to die."

"Hey," Trip said in mock indignation. "Can't I call you beautiful?"

Malcolm smiled. His eyes were still closed. "If you must."

Trip reluctantly let Malcolm go and stepped back. "You'd better get ready before they all come lookin' for you. They probably know where your quarters are by now."

"Now that's a miserable thought," Malcolm said. But he straightened up and yanked off his workout shirt, tossing it into his laundry bin. He turned to Trip. "I don't suppose I could compel you into coming with me?"

Trip just grinned, shaking his head. "Not on your life. I'm going to take a shower and wash all this cat fur off."

"Bollocks," Malcolm said without any vehemence. "I suppose I should be grateful that I'm not allergic to them, the way they've been clinging to me all day long." He gave an exaggerated shudder. "They're like weightless toddlers."

"Yep." Trip stretched, yawning. "Well, enjoy 'em while you can—they're leavin' after this. I'll probably have to have some kind of diplomatic breakfast thing with 'em an the cap'n in the morning."

"We shall have ice cream." Malcolm copied PallaTul's voice perfectly, and both men laughed.

Trip gave him a quick kiss, then walked to the door, still chuckling. "I'll come by when I'm cleaned up, spend the night," he said. "That okay?"

Malcolm fairly beamed, all traces of fatigue momentarily vanishing. "That would be lovely."

"Great." Trip smiled back. "See ya later."

Trip stepped into the hallway and Malcolm's door shut behind him. He half-expected to see the four QueeOralla hovering outside Malcolm's quarters, and breathed a sigh of relief when he saw he was alone. He really did like them, but well, all that enthusiasm got to be a bit tiring after awhile.

He walked quickly to his own cabin, eager for a shower and more than a little worried the aliens would show up after all. Poor Malcolm would probably need another shower once they were through with their second tour of the armory.

Of course, this time Trip would be able to take that other shower with him. He suddenly found himself hoping that the QueeOralla would be touching Malcolm a lot.

* * *

"Well," Malcolm said to the four aliens hovering around him, "I'm afraid that's all I've got to show you—unless you'd like to see me operate the forcefield again." He was really, really hoping they wouldn't; he'd already had to show it to them three times. He was leaning against one of the torpedoes in its launch cradle, with PallaNim and YulaTov hovering in front of him. As usual, PallaNim was holding onto his hand. KadiGo had her stubby fingers in his hair, which made it somewhat difficult to concentrate. PallaTul was right behind him. He could feel one of her hands on the back of his neck. It was soft as a cotton ball, and he resisted the urge to scratch.

"That was wonderful, Lieutenant," PallaNim mewled happily. "Thank you so much for your time."

"My pleasure," Malcolm said automatically. He forced himself to keep smiling, thinking of Trip waiting for him. He hoped the commander hadn't fallen asleep by now. It wasn't particularly late, but dealing with the QueeOralla, pleasant as they were, was exhausting. At this point Malcolm didn't think he'd be up to anything more than talking with Trip, but even a few more minutes alone with him would be nice.

"You have been most kind to us, Lieutenant," PallaTul said. "But we must return to our ship now and rest."

"Of course," Malcolm said, hoping he didn't sound too thrilled at the idea. He pushed himself away from the torpedo. "I'll see you to the joining airlock then."

"Thank you, but that is not necessary." PallaTul said. She was still floating behind him, her fingers grasping gently at his collar. He felt a slight tug as KadiGo moved her hands in his hair. "You have done more than enough."

Malcolm, about to answer her, barely noticed the touch of cool metal to the back of his neck. He was unconscious before he even hit the floor.

* * *

"Hey."

Malcolm cracked his eyes open, then blinked fully awake. Trip was smiling down at him.

"I'm in Sick Bay again, aren't I?" he asked.

Trip nodded. "Yep."

"Bloody hell." He sat up, pleased that he felt only a slight dizziness when he moved. He rubbed the back of his neck. He was in the usual Sick Bay-issue pajamas. "How long was I out?"

"Nearly forty-five hours, actually." That was from Phlox, who had come up beside him, and was now peering at the readings on the screen above his biobed.

Malcolm glanced at him sharply. "What?" It was only then he noticed the IV line neatly buried in his arm, the bag hanging serenely above his bed. So it wasn't some kind of odd Denobulan humor or Trip playing a joke on him again. "Forty-five _hours_?" He rubbed his neck again. "What did those rotting furballs give me?"

"Whatever their narcotic was," Phlox said, smiling, though it held none of his usual unnerving good spirits, "it was most effective in keeping you unconscious—I wasn't able to find any kind of counteragent for it. I just had to let your body absorb the drug on its own."

"Forty-five hours." Malcolm leaned his elbows on his thighs, covering his face with his hands. For some reason the sheer, incredible amount of time he'd been unconscious bothered him even more than having been drugged in the first place. It felt like the QueeOralla had stolen part of his life from him.

He felt Trip's hand rubbing his shoulder. "They duped all of us, Malc," the commander said gently. "Hell—I thought they were so damn cute. We got snowed big-time."

Malcolm looked up at the commander, dropping his hands. "They stole the EM forcefield, didn't they?" It only made sense. It was the one piece of equipment that had truly enthralled them, the one item they had asked to see demonstrated more than once.

"Uh-huh." Trip nodded morosely. His hand moved to Malcolm's back. "It was the only thing missin'."

Malcolm groaned and put his face in his hands again. "Damn. Damn, damn, damn." He gritted his teeth, furious with himself. "I'm such a bloody git—I showed them how it worked! Let them get their thieving paws all over it."

"It's not your fault, Malc—"

Malcolm shifted his back, pulling away from Trip's hand. "Of course it's my fault! _I'm_ the one in charge of ship's security!" He grimaced as there was a sudden flare of pain behind his eyes, and he turned away, rubbing the side of his head. He felt Trip's hand again and waved him off. "Don't."

Phlox moved in instead, holding a medical scanner. "Are you in pain, Lieutenant?"

"Just a headache," Malcolm admitted. "It's nothing."

"I'll be the judge of that, hmm?" Phlox said. He eyed the scanner readout. "But it does, in this instance, appear to be just a headache." He smiled at Malcolm and Trip. "No doubt caused by oversleeping. I'll get you an analgesic and something to help you relax."

"Relax?" Malcolm asked, incredulous. "I've been sleeping for two days!"

"Well," Phlox said almost apologetically, "it's nearly nineteen-hundred hours. You'll have to sleep tonight if you want to keep your body on a proper cycle."

Malcolm let out a long breath. "Bloody hell."

"Y'seem pretty tense to me," Trip added.

Malcolm shot him a look. "I think I have a certain right to be unhappy with the situation, Commander, all things considered."

Trip raised his hands. "I never said y'weren't. But there's nothin' we can do about it, Malc. The QueeOralla knocked you out, grabbed the forcefield generator, an' took off like bats outta hell." He shrugged, hands spread helplessly. "Even if we'd been able to catch 'em, they had us completely outgunned. You know that—you scanned their ship for weapons." "You didn't even try?"

"It's not like we didn't want to go after 'em!" Trip retorted. "But the cap'n decided it was too risky, too likely we'd be the ones endin' up on the short end."

"Well," Malcolm said stiffly. He pivoted so he was sitting on the edge of the bed. "I'm pleased to know how much my contributions count around here."

"Malc!"

He ignored Trip's protest, standing just as Phlox returned with a hypospray.

"Going somewhere, Lieutenant?" The doctor looked pointedly at the IV in Malcolm's arm.

"Yes," Malcolm said. "I was going to my quarters."

"I haven't released you."

Malcolm tried to cross his arms, but the IV line tugged painfully and he dropped his hands to his sides. He took a deep breath, trying to keep his patience. He purposefully didn't look at Trip. "I really do feel fine, Doctor. I'd really rather not stay here another night."

Phlox just raised his eyebrows. "I believe just a moment ago you said you had a headache."

Malcolm's eyes narrowed. "That hardly strikes me as reason to keep me confined to a biobed."

"It's not," Phlox said mildly, "but having been recently injected with a completely unfamiliar alien narcotic is. I want to keep you here overnight for observation." He patted the bed. "Back up, Lieutenant."

Malcolm reluctantly sat on the biobed again, but put his hand up to ward off the doctor when Phlox brought the hypospray towards his neck. "I think I've been drugged enough this week, thank you."

"Very well," Phlox stepped back, dropping the hypospray into a pocket of his outfit. "But I want to know if the pain gets worse."

Malcolm just nodded wearily.

"All right," Phlox said, "if there's nothing you need at the moment, then I'll leave you two alone. Just use the call bell if you need anything."

Malcolm managed to force out some kind of thanks, waiting until Phlox left before he sagged back onto the biobed. "I can't believe he wants me to go back to sleep."

Trip chuckled. He hoisted himself up onto the next biobed over, hands curled loosely around the edge. "It's better than getting jet-lag."

"I probably already have jet-lag," Malcolm groused. "I should be in the armory, making sure the forcefield is the only thing missing." He turned his head so he was looking up at Trip. "Are you certain that none of our security codes were compromised? If they have access to any of our internal systems, we'll be completely at their mercy if they establish some kind of remote connection."

"Ian an' Stephanie went over all the security systems about fifty times with a fine-toothed comb," Trip said. "I sent Mike over t'help 'em. Hoshi and T'Pol have been doin' the same thing for communications and general data, and part of my crew for engineering. If they'd so much as put an extra character in one of the lines of code, we'd've found it by now. And the EM field was the only thing stolen; Ian verified that. They even left all the specs and experiment logs behind."

"Well, that's a small mercy, at least," Malcolm sighed. "I appreciate you lending us Rostov—he and Young are good friends; they work well together."

Trip gave him a small smile. "Figured it was the least I could do." His smile wavered, and he ran his hand though his hair. "When the QueeOralla left all of a sudden like that, and the bridge couldn't get you on the comm, I went with the security team, lookin' for you in the armory." His mouth crooked, but there was no humor in it. "Must've scared me outta a year's growth, seein' you on the floor like that. I thought you were dead." He shook his head suddenly, as if trying to toss the image out of it.

Malcolm forced himself to smile for him. "You have to stop finding me in these compromising situations."

He was hoping that might make Trip laugh again, but the commander just pushed himself off the biobed and crossed the short space between them. Trip took his hand. "I hate that part of your job," he said.

"Me, too," Malcolm answered just as seriously, letting Trip thread their fingers together. He sighed again. "I just hope the captain isn't reconsidering the merits of a tactical expert who lets himself get ambushed by floating kittens."

"Don't do that, Malc," Trip said. "They fooled all of us, the cap'n included. He doesn't blame you."

"He should," Malcolm said with deceptive mildness. "I'm surprised he's not here, actually," he added quickly, before Trip could argue with him.

Trip looked apologetic. "I thought it might be better if he talked to you in the morning."

"Oh, really?" Malcolm raised his eyebrows. "And why is that?"

Trip shrugged. "I figured you'd be kinda pissy when you found out how long you'd been in here. I didn't want you to have to deal with him like that."

"How very kind of you."

"Sure." Trip squeezed Malcolm's hand, cheerfully ignoring the lieutenant's sarcasm. "I figure you can make it up to me later."

* * *

He didn't sleep at all that night.

He pretended to, when Phlox came by to check on him, keeping his eyes closed and breathing as slowly and evenly as he could, hoping the readout above the biobed wouldn't betray him. If Phlox was aware of the ruse he didn't let on, but as soon as Malcolm could no longer hear his footsteps, his eyes snapped open again.

The QueeOralla had fooled him completely, beguiled him with their seeming innocence and enthusiasm, their endearingly eccentric behavior. It had been a scam, all of it, and he had fallen for it completely.

He felt so stupid.

_You're getting soft, Malcolm_ , he thought viciously. It was true: hadn't he done the same thing with the Vissians, after all? Let them roam completely unfettered around the ship? He had happily let Trip go off to spend time with the Vissian engineer, his own captain off with the captain of the alien ship. If any of those aliens had even the slightest malevolent intent they would probably all be dead now. As it was, Trip had managed to end his brief visit in disaster; something that might have been avoided if Malcolm had gone with him, or insisted that Trip take a member of his security team.

And even worse: the wonderfully friendly Tellarite who turned out to be a bounty hunter. He hadn't even insisted on going with Trip and the captain to the airlock, to make sure the stranger was truly what he seemed. If the Tellarite had decided to take an extra second to switch his phase pistol to 'kill,' Trip would have died. If Archer wasn't so good at engendering sympathy, he would more than likely be dead as well.

And all because he wasn't doing his job. That wasn't going to happen again.

Malcolm realized his fists were clenched hard enough to hurt, and his headache had steadily worsened until his head was pounding. He forced himself to relax, trying to concentrate on nothing but his breathing. His resolution calmed him a little bit, enough that by the time Phlox came back he was able to pretend to sleep again; the readout screen showing only even breathing and quiescent thoughts. He didn't want Phlox to give him anything to help him sleep. The idea of being drugged again was horrible.

But his mind was burning: never again, never again, never again.

* * *

"With all due respect, sir, I really don't think this is a good idea."

The morning hadn't gone well. The headache that had started the night before was still gnawing away behind his eyes. Phlox had finally released him from Sick Bay, but so late in the morning he had to rush through his shower and miss breakfast, and even then he'd been late for his meeting with the captain.

Jon, of course, had been wonderfully compassionate and understanding. Just as Trip had said, the captain didn't fault Malcolm at all for what had happened. He had even laughed about it, while Malcolm had stood 'at ease,' gripping his hands behind his back until the knuckles went white. The anger of the night hadn't left him either, especially in the face of Jon's airy dismissal of what had happened. He was thankful when the meeting had been cut short by T'Pol's announcement that they had come across another Minshara-class planet.

He was feeling agitated and surprisingly tired, considering the glut of sleep he'd had so recently. Even Trip's broad smile for him had done nothing to improve his mood. He badly wanted a cup of coffee and nobody to talk to him.

Instead, he and the rest of the bridge crew were gathered around the long console table in the situation room right behind the bridge. Everyone but himself was avidly listening to T'Pol's description of the Minshara-class planet they were in orbit around. It sounded idyllically Earthlike, and it was more than obvious that Trip and Jon were champing at the bit to get down there.

T'Pol stopped at his interruption, but she only glanced at him with mild curiosity. "You have misgivings, Lieutenant?"

"I do," Malcolm answered. He caught Jon's momentary expression of exasperation, but chose to ignore it. "We have no idea what kind of threats there might be on the surface. The senior officers shouldn't shuttle down before we've sent a security landing party to secure the area."

"Secure the area?" Trip was half-smiling, as if Malcolm had made a joke. "We're not goin' into a war zone. It's an uninhabited planet."

Malcolm stood up straight, crossing his arms. "As I recall, we thought Terra Nova was uninhabited as well."

"That's true, Malcolm," Jon said, "but in that case we had every reason to believe the planet was uninhabited. There had been no communication from the settlers for over 70 years; it was only logical to assume they were all dead." He was using his most reasonable voice, and Malcolm felt a sudden hot rush of anger.

"Don't patronize me," he spat.

Hoshi's eyes went wide, and Jon blinked, his head moving back as if to avoid a blow. Malcolm knew he had just said something quite stupid, but it didn't matter. He wasn't going to be ignored again. "And what about your very first away mission, sir?" He was nearly snarling. "The one where the commander almost killed T'Pol?" Out of the corner of his eye, Malcolm saw Trip duck his head in shame.

"Since then, the captain has agreed to conduct more methodical scans and tests from orbit before commencing any surface exploration," T'Pol said. Malcolm saw her eyes flicker to the captain and back to him. "We have determined that this planet is free of hazardous organisms."

"And what if you're wrong?"

"Your concerns are noted, Mr. Reed." All trace of reasonableness had disappeared from Jon's voice, his tone clearly a reprimand. He turned to the sub-commander, gesturing for her to continue. "T'Pol?"

Reed watched his captain dismiss him, again, and his guts clenched up with a white-hot burst of rage. "Damn it! Why don't you _listen_ to me?"

Jon whirled on him, face dark with anger, and stopped. Travis and Trip were all but gaping at him, eyes horrified. Hoshi had her hands over her mouth.

And it was then that Malcolm felt the first lance of pain.

He blinked, lifting his bleeding fist away from the shattered remains of the console screen. He had no memory of hitting it.

"Sweet Jesus," Trip whispered. "Malc?"

Malcolm swallowed, still staring at his hand. There was glass embedded in it; he could see the purple darkness of muscle in the longest and deepest gash. The pain was bad but strangely distant, like it belonged to someone else. "Permission to go to Sick Bay, sir?" he breathed.

"Granted," Jon said numbly. He looked at Trip, who had gone white. "Trip, go with him."

Malcolm stepped away from the remains of the situation table, pressing his hand lightly to his chest. He could feel rivulets of blood, the itching pain of the glass. He turned and walked as fast as he could to the turbolift, worried he might throw up or faint. He could already feel the nausea roiling in his stomach, the heat of sweat down his back. By the time he was inside the lift he was trembling.

Trip caught up to him in the lift. For a moment he just looked at Malcolm, face stricken and saying nothing. Malcolm saw Trip move to take his wrist, and he jerked his hand away.

"Sweet Jesus, Malcolm," Trip said again. "Are you okay?"

"I don't know," Malcolm said. He was looking down at his sliced hand. "I don't know."

* * *

"So, Lieutenant..." Jon was standing in front of Phlox's examination bed, hands on his hips. "Care to tell me what that was all about?"

"I'm sorry, Sir," Malcolm said. He was trying not to notice as Phlox used tweezers to drop a bloodworm into the large cut where the muscle had been visible; the metal pan on the instrument table now held several pieces of bloodstained glass. "I was completely out of line."

"Well, not entirely." Jon smiled, though it was a little wan. "You were right about my first away mission. That was a mistake on my part—but one that hasn't happened again." His face grew serious. "But that kind of outburst isn't like you, Malcolm. Neither is—" He gestured wordlessly at Malcolm's hand, as if mentioning it would somehow make the incident worse. "Is there something wrong, Malcolm? Something you need to tell me?"

He sounded concerned instead of angry, and Malcolm fought his irritation. He kept expecting this man to act like someone who understood his rank, and Jon kept disappointing him. This was hardly the sort of conversation to be having in Sick Bay, while the ship's physician was hovering right next to them. At least Jon had sent Trip back to engineering when he arrived, though he would have much preferred the commander as a witness, rather than Phlox.

Not, he had to admit, that he was currently fit company for anybody.

As if he were aware of Malcolm's thoughts, Phlox looked up from where he was pressing the edges of the wound together, having spread some kind of organic adhesive over them. "Would you like me to leave?"

"No," Malcolm said. "It's fine." It wasn't like he was saying anything private. He also thought that Phlox's genteel presence would probably keep him from doing anything stupid again. He rubbed the back of his neck as he thought. "I do...have concerns about the safety of the crew during away missions, Captain," he said carefully. "But I should never have lost my temper in the way I did. It was completely unprofessional." He sat up straight on the bed, looking Jon in the eyes. "I will, of course, accept whatever reprimand you feel is appropriate."

Jon waved his hand dismissively. "I'm not about to confine you to quarters for losing your temper, Malcolm," he said. "Besides," he added, glancing at Phlox, "I think Phlox will be taking care of that for me, since I doubt you'll be able to go back to on duty today." He turned back to the lieutenant. "But is that it? You just lost your temper?" He looked pointedly at Malcolm's cut hand, which Phlox was now bandaging. "I've never seen you 'lose your temper' like that before. You sure you're okay?"

Malcolm resisted saying 'I'm fine,' since he knew Jon wouldn't believe him. His irritation was rising, both at his mishandling of the situation earlier and Jon's refusal to react appropriately. Instead he managed a small, tense smile. "I think my recent experience with the QueeOralla caused me to overreact, Sir," he said.

Jon raised his eyebrows. "I'm sorry that what they did affected you so badly, Malcolm," he said. "But no one's blaming you for that—their duplicity took us all in completely."

"So everyone keeps telling me." Malcolm's smile was grim. "But I can't help feeling that I should have been more on guard, more suspicious."

Jon laughed. "—Of airborne fuzzballs?" He shook his head. "You expect far too much of yourself, Malcolm. No one can predict everything that's going to happen out here." He gestured at Malcolm's hand again. "You can't punish yourself for being human."

"I realize that, Sir," Malcolm said tightly, "but I'm afraid that would be a paltry excuse if, through omission, I allowed something to happen to this crew."

Jon frowned, and for a moment Malcolm was sure he'd crossed the line again. But then the captain's face relaxed. "You're right, Malcolm," he said. He clapped Malcolm on the shoulder. Malcolm did his best not to flinch.

"Tell you what," Jon continued, "I'll send Young and Foster down with the away team, just in case they run into anything unexpected. Is that enough of a compromise?"

"Excellent, Sir," Malcolm said, smiling through gritted teeth. "Thank you." He wanted to say something along the lines of how lovely it was to be taken seriously for a change, but he shoved that thought aside as hard as he could. He was gratified when Jon accepted his words at face value.

"Great." Jon's amicable grin was genuine. He gave Phlox one of his inane 'take good care of him' statements, and finally left.

Malcolm slumped forward, letting out a deep breath. He felt a tug on his hand and turned sharply to Phlox. "Aren't you finished with that yet?"

Phlox looked up at him in mild surprise. "Patience, Mr. Reed—you did manage to hurt yourself rather badly. These things take time to patch up, hmm?" Reed just scowled. "I swear you worked faster when I had that spike through my leg."

"Well..." Phlox measured a strip of adhesive with his eyes, then deftly ripped off the extra. He smoothed the shorter piece over Malcolm's wrist. "I'd imagine that was because you were under sedation, since I was operating on you at the time."

Malcolm didn't answer him. He waited with clenched jaw and barely-leashed impatience while Phlox finished the glacial bandaging of his hand, then snatched it away when Phlox at last let it go. He stood, prepared to leave, when Phlox put a restraining hand on his shoulder.

"A minute, Lieutenant, if you would," he said. Malcolm didn't like the considering look in the doctor's inhumanly blue eyes.

Malcolm waited tensely as Phlox brought up another scanner, running it over the side and back of his head.

"Interesting," Phlox said. He was speaking mostly to himself. "How are you feeling, Lieutenant? Is that headache back?"

A muscle in Malcolm's jaw twitched. "Yes."

"Hmm." Phlox looked back up at Malcolm. "You seem to be suffering the effects of stress."

"You don't say."

"I do." Phlox gave him a brief smile as he clicked the scanner off. "Well," he said brightly, "since I'm taking you off-duty for the rest of the day, you'll have plenty of time to relax, hmm?"

Malcolm took a deep breath, flexing the fingers of his newly bandaged hand. It didn't hurt at all, though he tried not to think of the bloodworm writhing around just under the skin. "I'd much rather go back to my station, if at all possible."

"I'm afraid that isn't possible." Phlox said mildly. "I can give you a mild sedative if you like, if you feel it would help you relax."

Malcolm barely hid a grimace. "No, thank you," he said. "I'm sure I'll be fine."

"As you wish," Phlox said. "Come back tomorrow and I'll change the bandages and remove the bloodworm. Then we'll see about you returning to light duties."

"Light duties?" Malcolm shouted, furious. "I'm not some bloody invalid! The captain doesn't trust me as it is—are you purposely trying to make him think I'm malingering?"

"Mr. Reed," Phlox said, voice clipped, "I am _purposely trying_ to get you to allow your body time to heal. To that extent I have determined that you require rest—either in your quarters or in Sick Bay, as you prefer." The threat was clear.

Malcolm clenched his good hand, suddenly wanting very badly to throw his fist into that smug, unattractive face. His hand twitched, as if wanting to attack on its own.

The depth and force of the urge shocked him, and he quickly brought himself under control. Phlox was only doing his own duty, to Malcolm and, ultimately, the ship. Malcolm had no reason—or right—to be angry with him. "Very well," he said, trying to keep his voice neutral. "I'll—I'll be in my quarters then."

He left as quickly as he could, grateful for the privacy of the lift as it took him to his deck. He rubbed his face with his good hand, trying to ease the tension in his chest. This was quickly turning into one of the worst days of his life, and it wasn't even noon. He felt like a rabid dog: snapping at everyone for no reason at all. Phlox was right; he was obviously much more stressed than he had even realized.

And being forced to rest wasn't such a bad thing, really, he told himself. At least he could be alone.

* * *

By the end of alpha shift Malcolm was thoroughly sick of being alone.

He'd tried reading, writing letters, getting an early start on reports and evaluations, but it was impossible to concentrate, partially because of the pain in his head. Instead, his agitation had only increased as the day wore on, feeding his restlessness until he thought he might go mad. He thought about going to the gym and using one of the exercise bikes or the treadmill until he dropped with exhaustion. The idea was intensely appealing, but he was certain Phlox wouldn't approve. The last thing he wanted was to wind up in Sick Bay again.

He finally ended up pacing his quarters, trying to decide if he should give in and ask Phlox for something to calm him down. When his door chime sounded his heartbeat spiked like a gun had gone off next to his ear.

"Come in." He hoped his voice didn't truly sound as harsh as it did to his own ears.

The door slid open and Trip walked in, wearing jeans and his favorite green t-shirt. He looked happy and wonderfully relaxed; obviously a result of the day's away mission. "Hi, darlin'." He smiled. "I was wonderin' if you'd like to go for dinner." He winked. "If you aren't too busy."

Malcolm bristled inwardly at the joke, but he didn't show it. Instead he crossed the small distance between himself and Trip, buried his good hand in Trip's hair and pulled the commander down to him, kissing him fiercely.

Trip had already showered and cleaned his teeth: his mouth tasted like mint, and his skin was warm and smelled like soap. Malcolm sucked on his tongue, pulled it into his mouth and grazed it with his teeth. He bit down a little too hard and heard Trip's muffled yelp of protest, but he didn't let him pull away. He could taste the salt of Trip's blood, and desire rolled through him like flame. Malcolm growled, moving his mouth to kiss and nibble at the side of Trip's mouth, his jaw, his neck. He found the junction where Trip's neck met his shoulder, and he bit down.

"Ow!" Trip's hands were on his shoulders, pushing him back. Malcolm stepped away reluctantly. He was panting, already incredibly hard.

Trip was looking at him, expression bemused. "If you're hungry, maybe we should have dinner first."

Malcolm's eyes flashed. His grin was feral. "I don't want food." He went to Trip again, kissing him almost frantically. This was what he needed: Trip's body under him, to bury himself in that heat. He realized he needed it desperately. Trip kissed Malcolm back, trying to match his fervor. Malcolm's hands shook as he groped for the hem of Trip's shirt. He yanked it up brutally; Malcolm heard stitches pop before he got it over the commander's head. He only moved back long enough to kick off his boots and pull down the zipper of his uniform. He shoved the sleeves down his arms, stepped out of it while he pulled the black t-shirt over his head.

Trip had already taken off his boots, socks and jeans. Malcolm looked at him hungrily, then kissed him again, kicking their discarded outerwear out of the way. His hands skimmed up Trip's chest until he found his nipples. He rubbed them lightly with his palms, feeling them pebble under his touch. Trip sucked in a breath and reached down and cupped Malcolm's ass, pulling their bodies together. Malcolm could feel the hot pressure of Trip's erection just above his own.

He moved back again and rubbed his hand over Trip's penis, feeling the hardness, the wet readiness of it through the thin cloth. Trip pushed against his touch, groaning.

"Take them off," Malcolm said. He pulled off his own undershirt, then impatiently pushed his briefs down over his hips. He wanted nothing between them but skin.

Trip was finally completely naked. He stood still, chest heaving, watching Malcolm with blue eyes clouded by desire. He waited, seemingly aware that this was Malcolm's game tonight; Malcolm was in control.

"You're mine," Malcolm said, barely realizing he'd spoken. He put his hands on Trip's chest, ran them slowly down his torso, feeling the sleek skin and muscle, the slight indentations of his ribs. Malcolm slid his good hand over the line of hair leading from Trip's navel to his groin. His hand closed around Trip's cock, squeezing almost tightly enough to hurt. Trip gasped, reached for him, but again Malcolm stepped away. "Turn around."

Trip did, bending and splaying his arms, palms flat on either side of Malcolm's desk. Malcolm licked his lips, admiring Trip's shoulders and back, the valley of his spine. Malcolm's heart was beating so hard he could barely breathe, his desire so intense it was close to pain. Trip was beautiful; Malcolm ached to have him.

It took only seconds to find the lube. Malcolm squeezed a generous amount onto the fingers of his good hand, spreading it with his thumb. He smoothed his index finger down Trip's cleft, forcing himself to be gentle when it was all he could do not to push himself deep inside right away. But Trip moaned and writhed against his touch, and Malcolm grinned.

Malcolm pushed two fingers through the puckered opening into Trip's anus, closing his eyes to keep control as Trip gasped again and he felt the other man shudder around him. He pulled his fingers out, ignoring Trip's protest at the lack of contact. His bandaged hand fumbled with the lube, but he was able to get some onto his good hand, enough to spread over his cock. He was so ready his own touch was almost enough to make him come.

He pushed himself into Trip with one single thrust, and Trip staggered, crying out in a mix of pleasure and pain. Malcolm knew he should wait, let Trip get accustomed to him. He'd barely stretched him after all, and he knew it must hurt. But Trip was smooth and tight and hot as fire around him and he couldn't stop. He began to thrust almost violently. He took Trip's hipbone in his good hand, steadying himself. His bandaged hand pressed against the back of Trip's neck.

"Oh god, oh god," Trip groaned breathlessly. Malcolm didn't know if it was pleasure or pain and he didn't care. He was only aware of Trip's body around and under him: the incredible heat of his skin, the smell of his sweat. Malcolm leaned forward on his next thrust and bit Trip's shoulder, bucking as he moved in him. Trip's skin tasted like sweat and fire. His bandaged hand moved from the back of Trip's neck, sliding around until his forearm was against Trip's throat. He could feel Trip's Adam's apple bob as he swallowed.

Malcolm yanked his arm back and pulled himself out of Trip. He stumbled backwards, desperate to put space between them.

Trip turned around immediately. "Malcolm? What happened? You okay?" He was still hard, body aroused and ready. His eyes held nothing but confusion and concern.

Malcolm turned away, squeezing his eyes shut. "Go," he said. "Please, just go. You need to get out of here."

"What?" Malcolm could hear Trip step towards him. Trip tried to touch his face and Malcolm flinched. "What is it, Malcolm? What's wrong?"

" _Please_ , Trip!" Malcolm shouted at him. "Go! Just go!"

He didn't move, didn't turn his head or open his eyes. It seemed to take forever before he heard Trip moving, pulling on his clothes. He heard Trip go to the door, then stop before it could slide open.

"Trip...!" Malcolm's voice was a warning.

He didn't move again until he heard his door slide open and shut as Trip walked through it. Then he finally opened his eyes.

Malcolm went straight to his bathroom, turned the shower on as high as it could go, then cranked the temperature up until it was near scalding. He stepped in, hissing at the heat of the water. He grabbed the soap and began furiously scrubbing his hands. The bandage was waterproof, and the water kept beading against it and sliding away.

It wasn't enough. He knew it wouldn't be, that nothing would. He leaned against the shower wall, sliding down it until he was sitting on the shower floor. He wrapped his still-soapy hands around his drawn-up knees, resting his forehead against them. He couldn't stop trembling.

Because while he'd been with Trip, his arm across his lover's throat, he'd had this sudden image of himself pulling back with all his strength. Choking Trip to death, fucking him while he died. He had imagined it: his weight over Trip's back, the commander's desperate, useless struggles beneath him. In his mind he'd climaxed just as he'd finally crushed Trip's throat. And it had been wonderful.

And he had almost done it, almost strangled the man he loved. If he hadn't forced himself away Trip would be dead.

"What's happening to me?" Malcolm whispered, the water burning against his lips. His head throbbed in pain. "Dear god, what's happening to me?"

* * *

"Are you having trouble sleeping?"

"No." It was a lie, of course. Malcolm hadn't slept at all.

"Hmm." Phlox checked his scanner readout. "Any pain? Headache?"

"No." Malcolm gently clenched and unclenched his cut hand, enjoying the freedom of the thinner bandages. His head roared with pain, but he forced himself to be calm, to show nothing.

"How are you feeling?"

"Fine." Malcolm made himself smile, though he guessed it didn't reach his eyes. It was very hard to control his anger, though he was almost certain he didn't wish Phlox any harm.

Phlox looked up from the readout, eyebrows raised. "I'm aware of your liberal interpretation of 'fine,' Lieutenant."

Malcolm just kept his smile fixed on his face, his hands relaxed at his sides. He said nothing.

Phlox waited, but when Malcolm didn't answer, he studied the small scanner's readout again. "Regardless, your symptoms of stress have only increased since yesterday." Phlox shut the scanner off and placed it on the biobed. "Is there perhaps anything you'd like to discuss?"

"No, thank you." Malcolm smiled. "It just hasn't been the easiest week."

"Hmm." Phlox nodded. "No, I suppose not. Still..." he turned, picking up a hypospray. He brought it near Malcolm's neck and paused. "I would like to give you something to help you relax, ease your tension a bit. I promise it is entirely benign."

"Of course." Malcolm tilted his head obediently, pleased when he didn't recoil as the metal touched his neck. He didn't feel any change at all.

"I'd like you to remain off duty until this afternoon," Phlox said. "I also want you to come back if you continue to feel undue stress or agitation. Oh," he said, glancing pointedly at Malcolm's hand, "don't do anything to aggravate that. It won't be healing as quickly now that I've removed the bloodworm."

"I promise." Malcolm smiled and gave him a polite nod, then waited until Phlox allowed him to leave.

He left Sick Bay and walked quietly to the turbolift, got in and set it to take him to his deck.

Then, methodically and with deliberation, he smashed his bandaged fist into the turbolift wall over and over again, until the metal was stained with smears of blood.

* * *

"As you're aware, this afternoon was scheduled for hand-to-hand combat practice," Malcolm said. He rubbed the back of his neck as he adjusted his grip on the staff with his bandaged hand. "But as you can see, I'm still short one hand, so we'll be doing something a little different."

He was in the gym along with two members of his armory team: Ensigns Stephanie Cormack and Ian Young. All three were wearing workout gear and had bare feet.

"Is your hand okay, sir?" Stephanie asked.

Malcolm glanced at his bandaged hand. It was rust-colored from his blood. "It's fine," he snapped. "Pay attention."

Stephanie blinked, but she said nothing else.

"This," Malcolm continued, displaying the heavy plastic weapon, "is a replica quarterstaff, one of the most fearsome close-combat weapons ever developed. Naturally, a real one would be made of wood." He had two more replica staffs lying by his feet. He'd had the quartermaster make them weeks ago, after the last away mission on a pre-industrial planet. These were nearly two meters long, with padded ends, meant strictly for practice.

He tossed the one he was holding to Ian, who caught it deftly, then silently tossed the other quarterstaff to Stephanie.

"Obviously, the majority of populated Minshara-class planets we visit will have technology at a comparable level to ours. However, that won't always be the case. There may be times when you'll be forced to use local weapons to defend yourselves or your crew." He twirled the long staff around one of his hands. "They may not be as elegant, but they can be quite effective." His mouth twitched in some semblance of a smile. "Dead is still dead." He turned to Ian. "Mr. Young. Let's start with you."

Ian exchanged a glance with Stephanie.

"Something wrong, Ensign?" Malcolm asked him. He began flourishing the weapon, spinning it and moving it from hand to hand. There was a twinge of pain in his hurt hand as the re-opened cuts stretched.

"No, sir." Ian squared his shoulders and stepped forward, going into a basic self-defense stance. He held the staff at a diagonal across his body, grasping it near the center like it was a set of handlebars. He looked at Malcolm. "Is this right?"

"No." Malcolm brought his staff up and slid his hands back until he was holding it like he would a long sword. Then he swung it downwards, smashing it into Ian's collarbone.

Ian screamed in pain and shock. The staff dropped from his hands. Malcolm smiled as he felt the impact vibrate up the plastic. Anger surged and crested like waves of heat—pulsing in time with the red agony in his head, the heavy thumping of his heart. He wanted this, needed it more than anything.

Ian tried to block the next blow, but his right arm was useless now that his collarbone was broken. Malcolm swung again and the quarterstaff slammed into Ian's side, sending him sprawling to the gym floor.

Ian looked up at him uncomprehendingly, his eyes glazed with pain. He kicked out with his legs but Malcolm evaded him easily. His next blow came down on Ian's ankle.

"Poor show, Ensign," Malcolm said calmly. He spun the staff in his hands, then swung it with all his strength at Ian's head.

Something hit him first: hard across the side of his own head. He stumbled, badly dazed and staggering.

He saw it was Stephanie just before the second blow hit. She was holding the quarterstaff like a very long baseball bat, looking as furious as he'd ever seen her. She was swinging it at him again—

There was a moment like thunder inside his skull, then there was nothing but black and silence.

* * *

Trip hadn't felt this afraid in a long time.

He was standing with Jonathan and Stephanie in front of the medical imaging scanner, which had somehow become Sick Bay's unofficial meeting location.

He was listening to Stephanie telling them that Malcolm was losing his mind.

Ian Young would be dead if Stephanie hadn't intervened. No question about that. The ensign had told them what had happened in the gym, how Malcolm had attacked Ian with clear intent to kill. He had almost crushed the young man's skull. As it was, Ian was resting in his quarters with two broken ribs, a shattered ankle and a fractured collarbone. Trip was quietly amazed that the ensign hadn't been hurt worse than that.

"I didn't want to hurt him," Stephanie said, speaking directly to Jon. She was standing at rigid attention, her misery and horror only evident by the minute shaking of her hands. "I wouldn't have hit him, except that I didn't have time for anything else. It...It was my only option, Sir."

"You did well, Stephanie," Jon said. "You saved Ensign Young's life. I'm putting a commendation in your file."

"Thank you, Sir." She only looked slightly relieved.

Phlox had been listening intently, eyes distant in concentration. "Did he, by chance, give any reason for having reinjured his hand?"

"No, Sir." Stephanie shook her head. "I asked him about it, but he wouldn't tell me."

"What's happened to him, Phlox?" Jon asked. "Why is he acting like this?"

"I don't know," Phlox admitted. "I can only tell you that his hypothalamus has been affected. It is currently producing excessive amounts of acetylcholine, which is a neurotransmitter intimately connected with the fight-or-flight response in humans." He sighed. "But normally, this high a level of acetylcholine would render him severely ill, most likely even kill him." Phlox looked over to one of the readout screens at the long lab table near the imager. Trip had no idea what was represented by the readout on the nearer of the two screens, though it seemed to mean something to the doctor. "I'm at a loss to explain what else may be going on, Captain."

"Why didn't you know any of this before?" It was the first time Trip had spoken since entering Sick Bay. He knew even before Jon's censuring look that his question sounded more like an accusation, but he didn't care. Maybe Phlox could have stopped this, prevented it from happening.

"I have been keeping as close a scrutiny as possible on Mr. Reed's condition." Phlox spoke with no defensiveness at all. "The scans showed increasing amounts of stress—which has the same root and symptoms of the fight-or-flight response. As I said, the other aspects of Mr. Reed's..." he paused, obviously uncertain of his next word, "...malady were completely unprecedented." He clasped his hands. "I'm afraid I wasn't aware that there was anything at issue here other than nervous tension. Except for the self-inflicted injury to his hand, Mr. Reed presented as essentially normal."

Trip dropped his head, rubbing the back of his neck. He hadn't told Phlox about what had happened in Malcolm's quarters just the night before. Malcolm hadn't seemed himself, but Trip had just figured the lieutenant had been angry with him. He hadn't searched him out since then for that reason; he had thought that Malcolm would want to be alone.

"Wait," Stephanie said. She was looking at Trip, the movement of his hand. "Lieutenant Reed did that." She touched the back of her neck. "At our sparring session. Before...before he attacked Ian." At Jon's questioning look she gave a small shrug. "It's just that I don't remember ever seeing him do that before."

"Hmm." Phlox said. "I saw him do that as well." He touched the back of his own neck with two fingers. "That's the location where the QueeOralla injected him. It could be relevant."

"But you checked him out," Trip said. He knew his voice was rising again, and he quieted with an effort. "You said the drug had worn out of his system." It was almost a plea. "You said he was okay."

Phlox just spread his hands. "The substance they used was previously unknown to me." His voice was quiet, his expressive face stricken. "It is possible this is a side effect I was unaware of. Some sort of delayed reaction."

Trip swallowed. He wanted to bury his face in his hands. He didn't only because Stephanie was right there and he didn't want her to see it. "Can you fix it?" It was hard to keep his voice above a strained whisper.

"I don't know," Phlox answered honestly.

Jon rubbed his hand over his mouth. "I don't need to tell you how important it is to get him back," he said finally. He was speaking to Phlox but looking at Trip. "The whole ship depends on him. I can't—I won't lose him because some aliens used a lousy drug when they stole our forcefield."

"I assure you, Captain," Phlox said seriously, "I will do everything in my power to restore Mr. Reed to his right mind."

"Good." Jon nodded. "Let me know if there's any change." He turned to Stephanie and put his hand on her shoulder. "Come on," he said gently. "I'll walk you back to the armory."

"Thank you, Sir," she said. She gave him a tiny smile.

Trip knew that Jon's whole last exchange with Phlox had been pretty much just for his benefit, but he still felt absurdly grateful. Jon had a way of approaching problems as if he could solve them through the sheer force of his will. He reminded Trip of Malcolm in that way, though Malcolm was a lot more discreet about it.

He felt the briefest touch on his arm, and startled, looked at Phlox. The doctor had told him nearly two years ago that he didn't enjoy being touched. The one time Trip had any physical contact with him at all was last year, when the doctor had washed Malcolm's blood off his hands.

"I am truly sorry, Commander," Phlox told him. "More than I can say. I want you to know I'm doing everything I can."

"I know. Thanks," Trip said. He smiled, though it was gone almost immediately. "C'n—can I see him?"

"Of course," Phlox said. "Only, please be aware he is...not entirely lucid. I had to sedate him once he regained consciousness, but it seems whatever is affecting him is also counteracting the effects of my medications. He's already had the maximum safe dosage for humans and is still conscious, though you may find he is drifting in and out."

"I understand," Trip said. "I just wanna talk to him."

Phlox took a breath. "It was also necessary to put him in restraints."

"Jesus," Trip whispered. Restraints. Like some kind of animal. His hand drifted to his shoulder, to the places Malcolm had bitten him the night before. Overnight they had blackened into two small bruises.

This wasn't happening. This couldn't be happening.

But it was. Oh, god, it was. There was Malcolm: gentle, funny, competent, loving Malcolm, strapped down like a prisoner. Tight bands of plastic circled his forearms and ankles, holding him securely to the biobed.

For a very long moment Trip couldn't even move, couldn't make himself go any closer. He barely noticed when Phlox quietly pulled the privacy curtain and slipped away.

Malcolm's head had turned as soon as he heard footsteps approach; now he was staring at Trip with eyes that were dark blue and wild. His whole body was trembling. His wounded hand was tightly clenched, shaking with the effort of it. The bandage looked dirty with the blood that had soaked through and dried. Trip guessed the cuts had to hurt, but with Malcolm like this, he was sure Phlox hadn't been able to re-close the wounds.

Malcolm's breath came in ragged gasps, like someone in the grips of a nightmare. But he was awake. Those terrible eyes were wide open. He didn't look like Malcolm at all.

"Trip," he said. The voice, at least, was the same. Trip let out a silent breath he hadn't known he was holding. He could close his eyes and listen, and the voice would be the same and maybe it would be like Malcolm was all right.

"Hi, Malcolm."

"You shouldn't come near me," Malcolm said. "I may bite."

"I don't think you're gonna bite me, Malcolm," Trip said, but he remembered his shoulder and his tongue. He went to the biobed anyway. He reached out to smooth Malcolm's hair off his sweat-sheened forehead.

Malcolm twisted his head away. "Don't," he said, voice harsh. "Please don't touch me."

"I want to touch you, Malc," Trip said. But he drew his hand back anyway. "I missed you today. I just—" His voice faltered. "I just want you to be all right."

Malcolm looked at him again. His grin was terrifying. "I don't think I'm all right."

"I know," Trip said. His throat was tight. "But Phlox is gonna set you up right as rain again, you'll see. You'll be fine." The words sounded completely hollow and fake, even to himself, but Trip was still shocked at the black rage that he saw flicker in Malcolm's eyes. He sucked in a breath, unconsciously moving his head back.

Malcolm smiled again, but this time it was hopeless and sad. "You see?" He whispered. "You see what I am?" His voice was shaking like his body, his hands. "It keeps getting harder, Trip," Malcolm said. "I'm trying so hard, but I don't think I can stop it. And it hurts. My head hurts all the time." His mouth twitched in a ghost of a smile. "Maybe I'm turning into some kind of animal."

"You're still you." Trip said. He automatically reached for him again, then pulled his hand away. "You're still Malcolm." He tried to smile for him. "I still love you."

"Oh, Trip," Malcolm said, and his voice was both amazed and incredibly sad, "Trip—didn't your father ever tell you to stay away from rabid dogs?"

Phlox had said he wouldn't be lucid. Trip could handle this. He could. This was still Malcolm. "You're not a dog, Malc," he said. He tried to make a joke of it. "At least, you don't look much like Porthos."

"My father told me I was like a rabid dog, once," Malcolm said pensively. He was looking at Sick Bay's low ceiling, though his eyes were distant, fixed on some memory. "When I refused to swim. He told me only rabid dogs were afraid of water." Then he was looking at Trip again, expression earnest. "You do know that you have to put rabid animals down, right?" He shook his head. His left arm pulled against the restraint around it, seemingly unconsciously. "By the time they show symptoms you can't save them." His eyes closed as a sudden, deeper tremor passed through him. Malcolm bared his teeth, eyes tightly shut as if in pain. "You don't know how much I wanted Ian dead."

"You don't have rabies, Malc," Trip said. Malcolm didn't mean it. He was just sick—terribly, terribly ill. Malcolm really didn't want anyone to be dead. Trip was sure he didn't. "You're just not doin' so well right now. Phlox is goin' t'help you."

"He can't." Malcolm suddenly pulled sharply against the restraints. "Oh god. I need to get out of here."

"It's okay..."

"No..." Malcolm groaned. He pulled harder, panting with the effort. "I can't be here. My head—"

"Malcolm!" Trip covered Malcolm's shaking fist with his hand, his eyes blurring with tears. Malcolm didn't respond, only thrashing and struggling against the restraints, lost in some inescapable nightmare. As Trip watched, the bandage on Malcolm's hand grew even more mottled with liquid red, as the glass cuts split open again.

"Commander?" Trip looked up into the doctor's face. Phlox's voice was gentle. "I believe it would be best if Mr. Reed were left alone."

"Yeah," Trip whispered. "Sure." Malcolm's hand twisted and grabbed his wrist, hard enough to make Trip grimace.

"I told you not to touch me," Malcolm said. His voice held an icy fury Trip had never heard before. His eyes were like night on water.

Trip stared back at him, heart hammering. "Let me go, Malcolm." He could feel the wet warmth of the lieutenant's blood, where it was leaking out along the end of the bandage.

"No," Malcolm said. He gripped harder. Trip's hand was going numb. "You don't understand. You don't understand it at all." His voice was urgent, eyes alight with fear. "When I get out of here, later on, I'm going to come for you. I'm going to kill you."

"Y'don't mean that, Malcolm," Trip said. "I know you don't mean that."

"You don't know what I mean!" Malcolm spat. His hand was like a bear trap around Trip's wrist; Trip could practically feel the bones grinding together. "You don't know anything. It doesn't matter what I want—I can't stop it." His eyes were black and liquid. "I love you. And...And if you don't get away from me you're going to die."

"I'm afraid you're not going anywhere for the time being," Phlox said. At the same time he pressed a hypospray to the lieutenant's arm.

Malcolm started violently. He snarled at Phlox, trying to reach for him. Then the sedative started to work and Malcolm slowly relaxed, sinking into unconsciousness. Trip was finally able to yank his hand back. He rubbed his wrist, feeling Malcolm's blood on it. It was sore, already beginning to bruise.

He stared at Phlox, alarmed. "Did—did you just OD him?"

"No!" Phlox said immediately. "His body is burning through anything I give him almost faster than it can take effect. This dose will likely keep him calm for no more than half an hour. Do you want anything for that?"

"What?" Trip realized Phlox meant his wrist. "Oh...no. It's just bruised, thanks." He glanced back at Malcolm; the lieutenant's eyes were already flickering. "You gotta tell me he's gonna come out of this, doc." His voice was hushed and quavering. "You haveta tell me he's gonna be all right."

"I will do everything in my power, Commander," Phlox said.

Trip looked at him: at the doctor's sad, earnest face. "I know it. I'm sorry." He took a breath. "I'd better go." He had blood on his sleeve. "I need to change my uniform."

He turned and left before Phlox would be forced to find something else placating to tell him. He wouldn't have believed it anyway.

* * *

Malcolm watched through slitted eyes as Phlox fed his animals. It was very hard to lie still, to pretend he was insensate, incapable of harm.

Because he was trembling, every part of him vibrating with anticipation. It was all he could do not to clench and unclench his hands, claw at the restraints. He could practically feel the good doctor's throat under his hands.

But he lay still, made his breathing soft, moving not at all when Phlox finally, finally came to his biobed. He didn't even twitch when Phlox undid the wrist restraint so he could tend to the re-opened wounds on his hand.

Malcolm hit him, just once in the throat. The angle was awkward, but he put all his strength behind it. It was gratifying when Phlox staggered back, gasping.

Malcolm rolled onto his side, letting the doctor choke. He quickly released the restraint on his other wrist, then sat up and freed his ankles. He leapt off the bed and hit Phlox again, this time with his good hand. He watched as Phlox slumped to the floor, still pawing at his throat. He grinned.

They had dressed him in the damned Sick Bay pajamas again, but there was no time to try and find his uniform. He had to get out of there.

He grabbed a scalpel on the way out.

He turned left as soon as he exited Sick Bay, heading towards the senior officers' quarters. He didn't run. It was late, well into gamma shift. There should be no one in the corridor. And if there was—

The pain in his head was almost blinding, but it was all right. He could live with it now—it felt like it had always been a part of him. It pulsed and ebbed in time with his heartbeat, surging like his blood. It was birth pains, for the animal he had become.

Rabid, for certain. Capable of terrible, terrible harm.

He was sweating, his light shirt soaked through with it, but he knew the wetness on his face was tears. He was grieving for Phlox, who he had left to suffocate. He was grieving for Trip, for what he was about to do. He turned the scalpel in his hand, closed his fingers around it. He felt the keen edge of the metal slice into his palm.

Blood. He had to stop for a moment, sagging against the wall as a white-hot tide of rage washed over him. Then he blinked the sweat out of his eyes and went on.

Trip hadn't changed his door code. Which was sloppy. Malcolm left bloody fingerprints on the keypad. The door slid open.

Trip was shirtless, wearing a pair of jeans. His hair was damp from the shower, sticking up in odd directions. The commander's back was to Malcolm as he looked out the porthole at the stars.

He was incredibly beautiful.

"Trip." Malcolm could barely speak around the lump in his throat. He would die for this man. He was going to kill him. He needed it so badly.

Trip turned, startled at the sound of his name. His eyes were blue as Earth. Malcolm watched as they widened in surprise and fear.

"I told you." Malcolm tossed up the scalpel, caught it so the handle was balanced between his thumb and first fingers. Then he threw it with all his strength at his lover's heart.

He saw the shock in Trip's eyes as the knife hit; saw his mouth working as he tried to speak. A circle of blood welled around the handle, then trickled down his chest like a tear. Trip's expression didn't change as he crashed to his knees.

And Malcolm, exultant, horrified, turned and ran.

—

He didn't want to risk the turbolift, so he climbed up to D deck using the Jeffries tubes. The exertion left him panting and trembling, but it didn't matter. He was almost done.

It was an easy run to the transporter; there was no one around to see him. He idly wondered how long it would take before someone tried to contact Phlox or Trip and discovered he was gone.

Malcolm went immediately to the transporter control, typing in the coordinates. He couldn't remember how he knew them, but then it was hard to think very far through the pain. He set it for a five-second time delay, just enough for him to jump onto the pad.

The transporter pad he appeared on was unfamiliar, though he knew exactly where he was. It was much larger than the one on _Enterprise_ , obviously able to transport a large number of people or a lot of equipment. The air smelled stale, as if this place were underground.

PallaTul floated gently in her chair, just a meter or so in front of him. Next to her stood an alien of a species he had never seen before: it was extremely large, with heavy, leather-like plate covering most of its body. It had a long tail that whipped back and forth like a cat; it was tipped with some kind of stinger, like a scorpion.

"Lieutenant," PallaTul purred. "How wonderful you are! That was even faster than I had anticipated." She was holding onto the shoulder of the scaled alien, her little hand wrapped around some kind of horn-like protrusion.

Malcolm's trembling hands curled into fists. "You bitch," he said quietly. "What have you done to me?"

He threw himself at her, mind full of fire and blood and grief and rage. The unknown alien grabbed him.

"Most wonderful," PallaTul mewled. She hit a button on her floater chair and Malcolm Reed collapsed into darkness.

* * *

_Don't pass out_.

Trip was on his hands and knees in his quarters, gasping and nauseous with pain. The scalpel was buried to half its length in his chest, quickly being covered with his blood. The pain was indescribable, radiating out from the impact point until it seemed to encompass his entire body.

His vision was graying around the edges, and Trip forced himself to keep breathing, despite feeling like his whole chest would crack with every twitch of his lungs. But he was dizzy and it was getting worse, like he couldn't get enough oxygen no matter how many deep breaths he took. But if he passed out he'd die: he'd fall face down and drive the scalpel straight into his heart.

_C'mon, Trip_ , he ordered silently, *just drop your right arm; that's all you have to do: bend your goddamn elbow and you can roll right onto your side*. His arms were shaking, desperately weak. Probably from shock. He was very afraid that if he moved at all they'd give out completely; drop him right to the floor.

There was a soft patter on the deck beneath him: his blood, dripping in a steady rhythm from the coated scalpel. There seemed to be a lot of it; there was already a small pool on the floor. He could feel it, wet and still warm against his palms. Maybe the little knife had actually pierced his heart.

His hand slipped, slick with his own blood and pushed by the weight of his body. He couldn't even cry out before he crashed onto his shoulder.

The scalpel jarred against the floor. It felt like a bolt of lightning in his chest. He passed out trying to crawl away from the pain.

* * *

"Doctor Phlox?"

Ari Cohn walked into the silent, darkened Sick Bay, purposely keeping his voice and footsteps quiet. He was carrying a mug of strong coffee, double sugar, and a cup of inky black Denobulan tea.

He wasn't looking forward to his shift tonight.

He shared a cabin with Ensign Ian Young, and had spent most of the afternoon making sure his roommate and best friend was comfortable and free of pain. Liz was staying with Ian overnight while Ari did his shift.

Ian should have been in Sick Bay, considering how badly he'd been hurt. But Lieutenant Reed was there. Phlox had decided it would be safer for Ian if the two men were kept apart.

Phlox had filled Ari and Liz in on what had happened, but Ari could still barely believe it. He didn't know the lieutenant well, but Ian worked in the armory directly under him, and made it seem like there wasn't a better superior officer on the ship. More than once Ari had suspected that Ian actually had a crush on Reed, at least before Reed and the commander became a couple.

But Reed had attacked his friend, tried to kill him. Phlox was still struggling to find out why, find out if there was even a cure for it. He had been his usual optimistic Denobulan self during the briefing, but Ari had been there with Liz; he'd seen the doctor's face, his expression as he had told them about Reed losing him mind.

No, Ari wasn't looking forward to this night shift at all.

"Doctor?" He made his voice a little louder, wondering why Phlox hadn't answered him yet, why he couldn't hear any voices. Was Lieutenant Reed asleep? Phlox had told Ari that none of his sedatives had worked for more than a few minutes at a time.

But the silence was unnerving. Not even the animals were moving, or making any noises. Not even the nocturnal ones. It was like they were all hiding, hunkered down in fear.

A tiny, icy trickle of dread began working its way down Ari's spine.

He eased the two cups down onto the workbench near the imager, suddenly feeling like any noise at all might be a deadly mistake. The computer screens were off, as were most of the lights. Sick Bay was just dark enough to make normal vision uncomfortable, but Ari had no problem seeing the two empty biobeds on the other side of the room. The third still had the privacy curtain pulled around it.

Ari stepped forward, tensely listening. _He was restrained_ , Ari reminded himself. _He's been tied to a biobed. He can't do anything_.

But if Reed had somehow gotten free...

Ian had joked once that Reed was called the most dangerous man on the ship. And he had taken Ian down with two hits, almost killed him in four. Ari had only basic self-defense training; he wasn't even a quarter as good as Ian in a fight.

Ari glanced back longingly at the two cups quietly steaming on the workbench—they were full of hot liquid and might make pretty good weapons, provided he was given time to aim. He took a deep, silent breath and quickly walked the rest of the way to the biobed. He put up his hand and grabbed the curtain, trying not to make any noise or move it, hoping at least for a moment of surprise when he yanked it back. If Reed were there, and awake, and unrestrained, and dangerous and waiting, well, Ari figured he could at least use the extra quarter second to run.

Somebody coughed: a weak, helpless little sound like choking.

Ari whipped the privacy curtain aside.

The biobed was empty, the restraints open. Phlox was lying on the floor, obviously struggling to breathe. His chest was heaving painfully, each forced breath overly loud, like he could barely drag the air into his lungs.

Ari dropped to his knees next to the doctor, wishing now that he had turned up the lights so he could more easily see what was wrong. But even in the semidarkness he could tell that Phlox's lips had gone blue, cyanotic with lack of oxygen. There was a bruise on the side of the doctor's face, but not nearly so bad as the one at the front of his throat. Phlox had been hit hard enough that swelling was sealing off his trachea, slowly choking him to death.

"Hang on," Ari said. "I'll get a tube." He was going to get one of the intubation kits; if he could keep Phlox's airway open he could keep him alive.

Phlox grabbed his ankle with surprising strength, forcing Ari to look back at him. "Tucker," he said, choking, forcing the word past the growing obstruction in his throat. "Reed—" Phlox broke off, desperately gasping. His fingers loosened as he fell unconscious.

"Oh my god," Ari said. He ran for the supply shelf, groping at his sleeve pocket. It seemed to take forever before he could find the oropharyngeal airway tubes, each neatly sealed in a sterile casing. He snatched one from the shelf and ran back to Phlox, fumbling to turn his communicator on with his other hand. "This is Cohn," he spoke into it as soon as he heard the familiar beep that meant he'd established a connection. He crashed to his knees beside Phlox again, glancing helplessly at the still form of the doctor. "Reed's escaped. Send security to Commander Tucker's quarters _now_."

He dropped the communicator without taking the time to turn it off, then immediately reached for Phlox, gently shifting him so he was lying on his back. He tore open the package covering the tube with his teeth.

As he gently eased the tube past Phlox's epiglottis, Ari dimly heard a feminine voice coming through his discarded communicator. Maybe it was Hoshi—he couldn't tell from this distance. She was asking if he was all right.

He would have loved to answer her, but that would have meant picking up the communicator again so she could hear him. There were only so many things he could do at once.

* * *

He was surrounded by voices, most in languages he couldn't understand. Talking; whispering; screaming; laughing incessantly. But the loudest was some kind of banging, like something heavy striking metal.

Malcolm woke immediately, instantly alert. The last thing he remembered was being on a transporter pad. He had tried to kill PallaTul, and she had done something to him. He remembered that distinctly: the big armadillo-like alien had grabbed him as he'd ran at her, then she'd touched something on the arm of her floater chair and the rest had been absolute blackness, his brain shut off like a light.

He hadn't minded being unconscious. It had been quiet; there hadn't been any pain.

The banging came again, even louder this time. Malcolm grimaced, lips pulling back in a snarl. He had to get rid of it.

He was lying on his back on a metal floor, scuffed and discolored with age and ill use. A cell. He was held in by bars of some kind of dark metal, going up to a low, metal-grid ceiling. He couldn't tell where the lock might be, but doubted he would be able to disable it in any case; if this place truly belonged to the QueeOralla, as he guessed it did, then he was sure the lock's technology would be far beyond his training. Everything was in semi-darkness, maybe meant to imitate night.

He sat up slowly, but aside from the ever-present agony in his head there were no new injuries. He saw with some surprise that the bandage had been taken off his hand, the cuts completely healed. He flexed and stretched his fingers experimentally, but there was no feeling of weakness or pain.

Whoever had fixed his hand had also taken his clothes, which was interesting. Keeping a prisoner naked was a good interrogation technique, but he couldn't imagine what the QueeOralla would consider useful information from him. Or it might just have been a way to discourage escape attempts. Or for no reason at all.

Animals, of course, never wore anything.

Out of the corner of his eye he could see movement, bodies that went with the other voices. So he wasn't alone.

Another bang, even louder than before. " _Stop it_!" Malcolm was at the front of his cage, the words tearing out of his throat before he was truly conscious of moving. He gripped the bars furiously, trembling with eagerness to get at the source of the noise, to rip it apart.

He was looking at another row of cages, just like his own, stretching as far as he could see in either direction, until the line of metal was swallowed by the encroaching darkness. His own cage was one of a seeming multitude, each side-by-side in an endless row. There was just enough distance to the cage next to him that he could barely touch it if he stretched out his arm. There was a wide, empty aisle in between his row of cages and the row facing him, though there seemed to be no guards. He could see through the bars of the cage across from him, to the aisle beyond and the cage beyond that. There was a humanoid in every single one.

He caught a slight movement, and then he was looking across the aisle into the searing blue eyes of a female Denobulan. She was standing pressed against the bars of the cage facing him, as naked as he was. She was so thin he could see her rib bones, deep shadows just under her skin. Her facial ridges jutted out like stone, like there was barely enough flesh to cover them. Her nose was bleeding: a thick stream of red that oozed sluggishly over her lips and down her chin, following the curve of her overly-slender neck. There were smears of dried and clotted blood across her chest, and her fingers were stained deep red with it, leaving dark streaks on the bars. She saw that Malcolm was watching her, and her mouth spread open into a hideous, feral grin. There was blood on her teeth as well.

Malcolm turned his head sharply, closing his eyes against the flood of red rising behind them, the wild beating of his heart. If she liked blood, if she wanted to bleed...he could oblige her. He could. Oh, he could. In the cage next to her was a Klingon. He was at least as tall as Archer; with skin so dark it was hard to see his outline against the shadows. He was shouting something unintelligible, head raised in defiance and fury. The Klingon's left arm hung at an awkward angle, broken. Malcolm wondered why their captors hadn't bothered to fix it—right before the Klingon threw himself against the bars. The entire cage vibrated with the impact.

" _STOP IT_!" Malcolm's face pressed against the cold metal of the bars as he reached for the Klingon's cage. It was impossible to even touch the alien—the space between the cages was too large—but Malcolm didn't care. He strained against the bars, fingers curved into claws. He was going to take the Klingon's broken arm and twist it, wrench it backwards until the jagged edge of bone stabbed through the skin—

There was suddenly thick, wet warmth covering his mouth and chin. He licked his lips, expecting the salt of sweat or tears. But it was the coppery taste of blood. He wiped the skin under his nose with the heel of his hand, held it out in front of his eyes. Looked dispassionately at the thick smear of red.

So. Just like the Denobulan. He wondered how long it would be until he started yelling at the air, throwing himself against the bars of his cage.

Maybe this was all some kind of experiment: seeing which species broke first; which ones went completely mad; which ones hemorrhaged to death; which ones smashed themselves into broken oblivion.

In the other cage, the Klingon rushed the bars again, seemingly insensible to his own destruction. The noise sent spikes into Malcolm's skull, walked knives down his spine. Someone else started screaming again. It went on and on and on.

* * *

"Trip..." Jon closed his eyes, took a deep breath so he wouldn't start yelling at Trip like his friend was a little kid. Instead he took a moment and just watched him. It was such a relief to see him alive.

—Which didn't change the fact that he had no business being here. "Trip."

"Just a sec, Cap'n," Trip answered distractedly. He was at the bridge's science station, eyes pressed to T'Pol's viewer. Crewman Novakovich, whose shift it was, stood nearby awkwardly, as if unsure whether he should leave, help or try to reclaim his station. "Try it now, Travis."

"Yessir," Travis said from the helm. Jon watched as the ensign punched some keys, looked at the readout and frowned. "Nothing," he shook his head. "Still no indication of any kind of a warp signature." He rubbed his fingers vigorously over his eyes, trying to stifle a yawn. "Maybe if we try—"

"I thought you were on Beta shift, Ensign," Jon said, not unkindly.

Travis looked guilty anyway as he turned to speak to him. "I, uh, took Bonnie Fraiser's shift, Sir," he said. "The Commander and I wanted to try out some ideas on ways to look for Lieutenant Reed."

"We're kinda busy here, Cap'n," Trip said as he straightened up from the viewer, then winced and rubbed his chest. He turned to Travis, expression frustrated. "I got nothin' either."

"Trip," Jon said a little more forcefully, "You're still officially off duty. You shouldn't be here."

"This ain't exactly strenuous, Cap'n," Trip shot back. He went over to Travis's console, leaning over the helmsman's shoulder and punching buttons. Jon saw the engineer wince again as the muscles of his chest moved.

"Travis," Jon said, voice angry now, "call Fraiser and tell her to come back here. Get to bed."

"Aye, Sir," Travis said quickly.

"Dammit, Jon!" Trip snapped upright, whirling to face his Captain. Then he gasped with pain, his face going white.

Travis looked up at him, eyes wide and concerned. "Commander? Are you okay?"

Trip nodded, swallowing thickly. "Yeah, I'm fine. Thanks. Just straightened up a little too fast." But Jon saw that he had his hand pressed over his wound again.

"Commander," Jon snapped, "I want to see you in my Ready Room." He turned and went through the doors to his office off the bridge. He crossed the room to his desk, then turned and watched as Trip followed him in. "For Christ's sake, Trip!" he said as soon as the doors shut. "Sit down before you keel over."

Trip just glowered at him. He was still pale, but stood resolutely by the door, crossing his arms. "I ain't quittin' 'til I find Malcolm."

"Trip," Jon said, fighting his own exasperation, "we've got the whole ship looking for him. You were just operated on two days ago—you need to give yourself time to heal."

Trip's stance and expression didn't waver. "I'm fine."

"Now you sound just like him."

"Good," Trip shot back. "Maybe somebody should, considerin' you're fixin' to give up on him."

"What?" Jon asked, amazed. "How could you even think that?"

Trip's voice was cold. "You're the one orderin' me t'quit."

"I am not—!" Jon took a deep breath, dragging his palm over his face. "Trip," he tried again, making an effort to keep his voice calm, "you're in pain—practically dead on your feet. Travis is exhausted. I need my crew sharp if we're going to be able to find Malcolm."

Trip's head fell forward. He ran the fingers of one hand through his hair. "I can't..." He looked up again, face imploring. "I have to find him."

"I know," Jon said gently. He went to Trip and put his hand on the commander's shoulder, kneading the tight muscles. "We all want to bring him home safe." He took a deep breath, hesitated. "...But it's been two days—the planet we were studying was the only one within transporter range, and he wasn't on it."

Trip's eyes narrowed. Jon mentally steeled himself and he went on. "There's no indication that the QueeOralla ship—or any ship—was near enough for him to transport to, not even if it were cloaked. We would have found a warp trail by now; a heat signature, something—"

Trip shrugged Jon's hand off, pushed Jon's arm away. His eyes were dark with fury. "He's not dead."

"You have to accept the possibility that he just beamed himself into space, Trip," Jon continued relentlessly. "If he materialized close to the planet he'd have been pulled into the atmosphere by now. We'll never find his body."

"Why are you saying this?" Trip demanded. "What the hell are you telling me this for?" He stepped forward suddenly, mouth set and hands balling into fists. "If you know somethin', Jon—if, if somethin's happened and you're not tellin' me..." He let the words trail off, the unspoken threat clear.

"No," Jon said seriously. "I don't know anything more than you do."

"Good," Trip said. He relaxed slightly, had the good grace to look sheepish for a moment. "Y'had me scared."

"I know," Jon said. "I'm sorry. It's just..." He sighed. "We have to be prepared for the worst, Trip."

Trip's expression hardened again. "Don't," he said. "Don't say it. We'll get him back. He'll be all right."

"And what if he's not?" Jon asked sharply. "Trip—he tried to _kill_ you!"

"That wasn't him!"

"Then who the hell was it?"

Trip stepped forward again, eyes blazing. Jon stepped back. For a second—just a second—he thought that Trip might try to hit him. "Malcolm would _never_ hurt me," Trip snarled. "This has _nothin'_ to do with him!" He took a breath, visibly working to get himself back under control. "I'm gonna to bring him home, and he's gonna be all right. And then we'll make the sons of bitches that did this to him wish they'd never been born."

"Lieutenant Reed attempted to murder three members of my crew." Jon glared at Trip, his voice like ice. " _Why_ doesn't matter. Even if he's still alive, he might be too far-gone to save. And if I have to choose between my Armory Officer and my ship, my Armory Officer is going to lose. I'm not going to risk my ship over sentiment. Is that clear?"

Trip's blinked, stunned. "Sentiment?" The question was an astounded whisper. "You think that—" His expression was eloquent with hurt, with terrible betrayal. "What about what you said to Phlox? How 'the whole ship depends on him'; how important it was to get him back? What happened to that?"

Jon's tone didn't change. "That was before he almost murdered you."

"God damn you!" Trip shouted.

" _Trip_!" Jon yelled back.

Trip shut up, swallowing thickly.

"I'm sorry," Jon said, his voice gentling but still tinged with command, "but I have to think of my crew."

Trip's eyes were like blue stones, his chest heaving. "Permission to be dismissed, Sir?"

Jon nodded. "Get some rest." He watched silently as Trip turned and left.

Then he went and sat behind his desk, and put his face in his hands.

He'd just lied to his best friend. It wasn't about having to choose between his ship and his Armory Officer. It wasn't about that at all.

It was about saving the man who had almost killed Trip. And he wasn't sure he could do it. He wasn't even sure that he wanted to.

* * *

Trip walked into Sick Bay, smiling thinly at Ari and Liz when they turned at the hiss of the door. "Hi," He said to them, trying to sound anything but exhausted and replete with despair. "I think I need a painkiller."

"Sure," Ari said. With a glance at Liz he disappeared into the shelves in the back. Liz came over, grabbing up a hand scanner, and gestured to the diagnostic bed. "If you don't mind, Commander," she said, "I'd like to make sure the adhesive on your wound hasn't opened."

Trip climbed onto the bed wearily, trying not to jostle his upper body too much. "I look that bad, huh?"

Liz glanced up from her scanner with a brief smile. "Worse." She put the scanner down next to him. "It seems to be okay, but I'd like to take a look, if you don't mind."

Trip shrugged, then twitched as the movement hurt. "Knock yourself out."

Ari came back while Liz was helping Trip out of the upper part of his uniform. "This should help, Sir," he said. He pressed a hypospray to the side of Trip's neck.

"Thanks." Trip sighed in relief as the analgesic took effect. It was much easier to shrug off his black long-sleeved shirt and the blue tank underneath.

"Ouch." Liz made a face as she lifted the bandage over his wound. "It's still closed, but it looks like you've been pulling on it. What were you doing?"

"Lookin' for Malcolm," Trip snapped.

Liz glanced up at him, surprised. "We all want to find him, Commander," she said.

"I know," Trip sighed. "I know. I'm sorry." He let his head drop, rubbing the back of his neck. "I'm just worried about him. It's—"

He broke off, lifting his head. Both Ari and Liz were staring at him. "What?" Then he realized what he'd been doing. He moved his hand slowly away from his neck. "It's nothing," he said. "I do that all the time."

"Are you sure?" Ari asked him.

Liz was reaching for her scanner again. "How well have you been sleeping?"

"Yes I am," Trip answered Ari first. He turned to Liz. "Not well at all. Look," he said, pushing Liz's hand away, "I'm stressed. I'm upset. That doesn't mean I'm gonna flip out on y'all! Okay?"

"I'm sorry, Sir," Ari said apologetically. "Phlox told us to watch out for anyone with characteristic symptoms."

"'Characteristic symptoms'?" Trip's eyes went wide. "Sweet Jesus—you mean this thing's a _disease_?"

"It's just a precaution," Ari said quickly, which didn't explain anything. He turned to Liz. "I'll get a blood sample. You'd better call Phlox."

"Right." Liz nodded. She went over to the imager and hit a few buttons, turning it on. "I'll need you to lie down Sir," she said.

"Yeah. Sure." Trip nodded numbly. He lay on his back, arms tense at his sides. Suddenly every person he'd spoken to, casually touched, passed in the corridors over the last few days took on a huge, sinister importance. He swallowed. "Am I—am I gonna have t'be quarantined?" He was thinking of Malcolm: watching the man he loved disintegrate in front of his eyes; the look on Malcolm's face when he had thrown the knife. His heart started pounding so hard it hurt, despite the painkiller Ari had given him.

"I don't know, Commander," Ari said. He touched Trip's wrist. "I just need your arm for a second."

Trip flinched—he hadn't noticed the ensign coming up beside him. _Is that it_? he thought. _Is that how it starts_? He watched as Ari pressed the mechanical syringe to his inner arm, the blood flowing painlessly into the small vial. It looked deceptively harmless, normal and red. He tried to breathe calmly, not show his fear. If what had happened to Malcolm was contagious, and now it was in him...

He'd rather be dead. That was all. He'd rather be dead.

Trip's head began to hurt: a soft, insistent ache. Ari put the first sample aside and started filling another vial.

* * *

Malcolm was fairly sure he hadn't been in the zoo for more than a few days, but it had become difficult to keep track of time.

Every so often the light level in the prison would go from the customary darkness to bright white; the signal that the showers would begin. This was tepid water, pouring down in a heavy rain thorough the meshed ceiling. The water smelled antiseptic and tasted of detergent, but Malcolm used it diligently: it was the only opportunity he had to wash his body clean of the blood from his nose. He seemed to be hemorrhaging more and more often. He wasn't sure why.

After the water had drained away into the gutters alongside the cage rows, the armored aliens would come by with food. These were packaged ration bars, wrapped with dull tan plastic and stamped with unfamiliar alien lettering. They looked like military surplus, and tasted worse than anything Malcolm could remember. He ate as little as possible. He was hardly hungry, anyway.

At some point he had seen one of the QueeOralla—YulaTov, with her beautiful yellow fur—floating along in the wake of the brown aliens. She spent a long time hovering in front of the Klingon's cage, watching him methodically smash himself against the bars. YulaTov mewled piteously every single time, wringing her tiny hands.

Malcolm had thrown that day's ration bar at the back of her head, hitting her hard enough that her floater chair was driven forward against the Klingon's cage. He was a little disappointed that he hadn't managed to stave in her skull; he'd thought QueeOralla bones might be thin enough to make even hardtack dangerous.

He was still laughing when she'd stabbed her stubby fingers into the buttons on her floater chair. He'd come to with his nose bleeding, and the water hammering down on him again.

The Klingon was gone.

A day had passed since then, as far as he could tell. The only indication was the glaring white lights shifting to semi-darkness. He hadn't slept. He couldn't remember the last time he had actually slept—sometime before the QueeOralla had come onto _Enterprise_ , probably.

Now the water was raining down on them all again, stinging and unpleasantly cool. He stood under the acrid-smelling spray and let it wash over him, wash the blood away. He liked to be clean. It was good to feel he still had some control.

He wiped the water away from his eyes and opened them. His immediate neighbor, a female Varoshe, was staring right at him.

The red anger welled up again. Malcolm squeezed his eyes shut, shuddering as the rage overwhelmed him, the almost irresistible need to kill. His head was a furnace of pain. He tilted his head back and opened his mouth to the cool water; letting it drum down on his face. It helped. So terribly little, but it helped.

"You look Denobulan, but you're not. What are you?"

Malcolm lowered his head to look at her, absently wiping the blood from his nose. She was well into adulthood, if he remembered what Hoshi had told him about Varoshen over a year ago. She was sitting cross-legged, staring up at him. She had white-blond hair, darkened now and flattened to her skull by the shower, and a downy covering of deep brown fur. She was also naked, of course; he could see an ornamental white scar just above her left breast. It looked like some kind of brand.

He grinned wildly at her, feeling the water rushing over his lips, his teeth. "I used to be human." His voice sounded gruff, unnatural. He couldn't remember the last time he'd spoken. "But I'm not anymore."

"You look like a Denobulan," she said. "Except that your face is wrong." She sniffed, scooped wet hair out of her eyes.

The water shut off, leaving only droplets and a steady rush into the drainage gutters. The Varoshe shook violently, scattering a small shower of rain. She straightened again, grinned back at Malcolm. "I wonder how hard it would be to kill you." She cocked her head. "Nice red blood. Nice and warm."

"Hard enough," Malcolm said. He was examining her body with his eyes: the painfully slender limbs, the tight stretch of skin over her fingers and face. She was slowly starving to death. They all were. It wouldn't be hard to kill her at all.

"I killed my own Dominicai." The Varoshe leaned forward onto her hands and knees, crawled up to the bars of her cage as she spoke, gripping them with her bone-thin fingers. Her green eyes gleamed. "My own mother. Two weeks after the QueeOralla visited us. They liked me the best. They were always touching me. Petting...I licked her blood from my hands."

"Shut up," Malcolm murmured. He closed his eyes, leaned his forehead against the bars. They were still wet and cold, soothing against the fire in his mind.

She was making him remember, and he didn't want to do that.

The Varoshe was still talking. Her voice had gone flat, like she was telling a story that had happened to someone else. "She tasted like metal," the Varoshe said. "I was sick afterwards."

He was cold, shivering. Water still ran down his skin, drying slowly in the damp air. He could hear the armadillo-like aliens moving between the cells, tossing out the poison that passed for food. "I didn't want to hurt them," he whispered. His face, pressed against the bars, burned like a fever. There was red in the darkness behind his eyes. He could hear the guards getting closer, their distinct, heavy footsteps.

"I didn't even want her dead," the Varoshe said like an echo, "but I still wanted to kill her." She made a sound, something that could have been a laugh or a sob. "I was so happy to have her blood on my hands."

Malcolm had stopped listening. His attention was focused on the guard now: the approaching footsteps, the peculiar grunting noise of the alien's breathing. He turned his head slowly, opening his eyes a crack. The leather-skinned alien was at the front of his cage. Malcolm watched as the guard pulled a ration bar and something black out of the large bag hanging from his shoulder. The big alien moved nearly right up to the bars, putting his hand inside the cage so he could drop the objects in.

Malcolm spun and grabbed the alien's wrist. He wrenched backwards with all his strength, dragging the guard's entire arm into his cage. The alien scrabbled desperately at the bars with his other hand, his barbed tail thrashing, shouting something that couldn't be translated by whatever machines the QueeOralla had set up.

The pain in Malcolm's head was bright as death, but it didn't matter. Nothing mattered except what he was about to do. He bared his teeth and pushed the arm as hard as he could, levering it against the metal. The arm bent, gouging deep grooves into the alien's natural armor, but it wouldn't break. Malcolm heard the other guards running over to his cage; their shouts of anger and alarm mixed with the noise of the prisoners: the laughter and the wailing and the screams. The guard's tail whipped at him, the alien trying to stab him in the torso or leg. But the angle was wrong, and the stinger kept smacking harmlessly against the bars. Malcolm wondered if the other guards would actually do anything to him to help their friend, or just wait for one of the QueeOralla to come. He hoped they wouldn't wait. He hoped they would kill him, drag him away like they had the Klingon. Never bring him back.

In the meantime, at least, the guard had a very satisfying scream. It was better than nothing.

* * *

He was going to lose him.

Jon walked as fast as he could from the turbolift to Sick Bay, forcing T'Pol to either fall behind or jog to keep up with him. She was stronger, but he still had longer legs. He wished he could just break into a dead run, but he was the Captain. He still had to present some semblance of control.

He was going to lose him. That was the only thing Jon could think about. He would be forced to watch as his best friend went insane.

He hesitated in front of the doors. T'Pol didn't notice, she just hit the button and went in ahead of him.

Phlox was standing in front of the imager. His throat was still bruised: purple bleeding into yellow around the edges, but he looked much better than the last time Jon had seen him, when Phlox had explained in a halting, painful whisper that Trip had caught a scalpel between his ribs. A scalpel that Malcolm had thrown, aimed at the commander's heart.

At the time Jon had thought the news couldn't get much worse. How pitifully nave that had been.

"Evenin,' Cap'n, Sub-Commander," Trip said. He smiled, though his face was pale. He was sitting on the examination bed that fed into the imager, hands curled around the edge and legs dangling. He was still in his uniform, which made Jon feel absurdly hopeful, though he knew there was no reason to be.

"Hi, Trip," Jon answered him, while T'Pol gave a small nod in greeting. "How are you feeling?" It was a stupid question—the answer was more than obvious—but it was automatic, a way to fill in the space. Trip sighed. "Sick," he said honestly. "I've got one hell of a headache, and the doc's painkillers have stopped workin'." He hesitated, looking down at his hands. "Scared."

"I know," Jon said quietly. He put his hand over the commander's, gave it a small squeeze. Trip's fingers were cold, and his hand trembled every so slightly under Jon's touch. "But you're going to be all right. Phlox is already working on a cure for this. You're going to be fine."

"Sure," Trip said, though his voice sounded hollow. "You know," he added a moment later, "I said almost the exact same thing t'Malcolm."

Jon held Trip's hand a little tighter, as if his own body could be an anchor for him, pulling him back to hope. "We will find him, Trip," he said. "And Phlox will cure him, and...And then we'll make the sons of bitches that did this to him wish they'd never been born."

"Thanks, Cap'n." Trip's smile was so grateful that Jon had to force down a fierce stab of guilt. Trip squeezed Jon's hand in return before pulling his own back. "I really 'preciate it."

"He's part of my crew," Jon said, with more conviction than he actually felt. "I don't leave any member of my crew behind."

"Excuse me, Captain," T'Pol said, interrupting. She turned to Phlox, who had been quietly waiting. "You implied in your communication that Commander Tucker had somehow contracted the illness which was affecting Lieutenant Reed," T'Pol said. "It appears that such is indeed the case. Has he begun to show the same loss of emotional control?" Bless T'Pol for getting right to the point, for asking the question Jon couldn't stomach asking himself.

"Not yet," Phlox answered her. His voice was already much stronger, although it still sounded whispery and strange. "Though it is, presumably, just a matter of time."

"Oh god," Jon said quietly. He took a breath, glancing at Trip, though the commander had dropped his head again. Only the harshness of his breathing indicated that Trip was even listening. "Has anyone else been exposed to this?"

"No," Phlox said with gratifying immediacy. "I've taken blood samples from myself, Ari Cohn, Elizabeth Cutler, and all the members of Mr. Reed's Armory team, as well as from the stewards who were responsible for cleaning up the lieutenant's blood from the Situation Room and elsewhere, and Commander Tucker's blood from his quarters." Jon winced inwardly; there had been so much blood in the last four days. "Only Mr. Tucker has any trace of contamination."

So at least the rest of his crew was safe. That was something, anyway. "What do you mean by 'contamination?'" Jon asked. "What are we dealing with, here?" He forced himself to keep his attention on Phlox. "Can you cure it?"

"Actually," Phlox said, showing the first real glimpse of his typical cheerfulness since Jon had entered Sick Bay, "they're nanoprobes. Fascinating, really; they seem to have been programmed specifically to force the human hypothalamus to overproduce acetylcholine." He gestured at the three small computer screens at the workstation near the imager. "If you like, I'd be happy to show you—"

"Nanoprobes?" Jon could barely say the word. He resisted the desire to reach out and grab Phlox by the arm. "You mean...like what those cybernetic creatures injected into you?" He felt sick; felt the cold sweat dampening his neck, his back. The idea of Trip becoming like one of those _things_ , not even human anymore, millions of microscopic robots destroying his mind...Jon ran a suddenly shaking hand through his hair. "Can you—can you get rid of them?"

"Would a similar radiation treatment to what you used on yourself be successful?" T'Pol asked.

Trip's head snapped up. "No way I'm gettin' irradiated!"

"You damn well will if it's our only option!" Jon barked at him.

Phlox smiled ruefully. "The cure I used on myself would indeed be highly effective—if I didn't mind killing Mr. Tucker. Unfortunately, the level of radiation required to destroy the nanoprobes would be fatal to a human."

Jon looked away, focusing on Trip's clenched hands. He couldn't make himself meet his friend's face. "Oh." He swallowed hard against the growing thickness in his throat. "Surely—surely there's something you can do."

Phlox's voice was gentle. "I am attempting to find another solution."

"Another solution," Jon repeated dully. He turned back to Phlox. "How soon?"

"I'm afraid I can't answer that, Captain," Phlox said apologetically. He tried another smile. "Ari, Liz and I are working as fast as we can."

"Of course." Jon tried a smile of his own, and failed completely. "I understand."

"If Mr. Reed was injected with nanoprobes by the QueeOralla, that means what has been done to him was deliberate," T'Pol said. "In your estimation, doctor, was he also intended to infect the rest of the crew?"

Jon looked at her. He had been so caught up with what was happening to Trip that the full implications of it hadn't even occurred to him. " _Deliberate_? You mean, they _wanted_ this to happen?"

T'Pol regarded him steadily. "It is the only logical conclusion."

"I don't believe so, Sub-Commander," Phlox answered the Vulcan. "I'm fairly certain that the nanoprobes injected into Mr. Reed were meant for him exclusively. Certainly Mr. Tucker has been very much slower to present symptoms. It seems they simply never considered that Mr. Reed might be in a position to infect anyone else."

Beside Jon, Trip smirked humorlessly. "Or they didn't care."

T'Pol raised an eyebrow. "Indeed."

Jon put his hand on Trip's shoulder, though his attention was still on Phlox. "But he'll...He'll still get just as sick eventually."

Phlox nodded seriously. "Oh, yes."

"I would like to return to the bridge, Captain," T'Pol said. "Given this new information, it is reasonable to assume that Lieutenant Reed is still alive. If I can determine the purpose behind what was done to him, it may facilitate discovering his location."

"Good idea," Jon nodded. "Keep me informed."

T'Pol inclined her head in that smooth way she had, then left Sick Bay.

Trip slid off the examination bed. "Well," he said with obviously false cheer, "I guess I'd better get to decon."

"Decon?" Jon asked, shocked. "Phlox," he said to the doctor, "does he really have to be quarantined?"

Trip whirled on him. "I'm a goddamn walkin' time bomb!" He held out his hand, palm down, and Jon watched in quiet horror as it trembled. "Look at me," Trip said, obviously fighting for calm. "When Malcolm was shakin' like this, he was already out of his mind." He pulled his hand back, shaking his head. "I don't know how long I got, Cap'n, before..." He took a breath. "I'm not gonna risk hurtin' anybody. I won't—"

"It's okay, Trip," Jon said quietly. He put his hand on the commander's shoulder again, felt the slight tremor there too, now that Trip was standing. He had to keep himself from yanking his hand back. "You're right. You're right. I'm sorry." He turned back to Phlox. "Would it be acceptable...to confine Mr. Tucker to quarters?"

"Yes." Phlox nodded somberly. "That should be sufficient."

"Great." Jon let out a whoosh of breath. He gave Trip as hopeful a smile as he could muster, though inside he felt like screaming. "How about I walk you to your quarters, then?" he asked. "Help get you settled?" He wouldn't say, 'lock you in.' That's exactly what he would be doing, and they both knew it, but he wouldn't say it.

"Sure." Trip flashed a miserable, pathetic little smile back at him. "That'd be good." He nodded a quick farewell at Phlox, then the two men left together.

They walked in complete silence to Trip's quarters. All Jon could think of was that his best friend was dying. If not his body, then his soul, stolen piece by piece. And all Jon could do was watch it happen.

"Wait," Jon said. They were at Trip's quarters, the door open. He watched Trip turn around, caught the anguish on his friend's face, the barely-concealed sheen of terror. "Wait." Jon knew his own eyes were wet, his breath shuddering. He pulled Trip into a fierce embrace, holding him with all his strength, as if that alone would be enough to keep him whole.

"It's okay, Jon," Trip said. "It's okay. It's gonna be okay."

But it wasn't, it wasn't, and Jon knew if he lost Trip it never would be again. If he lost Trip it would be over. Finished. He would have lost everything.

"I'll get him back, Trip," Jon said. "I'll get him back for you. I promise."

Jon meant so much more than that; but that was all he could think of to say.

* * *

"What is it, Hoshi?" Jon crossed the bridge from his Ready Room, going to stand next to the communications ensign. It was early morning on the ship, though he hadn't slept or even gone to his quarters since being called to Sick Bay late in the evening. A steward had fed and walked Porthos while Jon worked with T'Pol, trying to find the QueeOralla or the smallest clue to where they had gone.

"We're being hailed, Sir," Hoshi said. She was looking more than a little haggard herself. The tension among the crew had been steadily increasing since Malcolm had become ill; now Trip's conspicuous absence was only making it worse. She gestured at the view screen, where a small, angular craft floated regally in the star-flecked darkness. "They're Denobulans."

"Open a channel," he told her. A moment later he addressed the screen. "This is the Starfleet vessel _Enterprise_." He tried to make his voice relaxed and welcoming, knew he was failing miserably at it. "I'm Captain Jonathan Archer. What can we do for you?"

"This is the Denobulan Science Vessel _Bright Path of Stars_." Onscreen was a grim-faced woman. Her eyes were almost lime-bright chips of green, but she wore nothing close to the customarily warm Denobulan smile. "I am Shipmaster Soph." She gestured at the man and woman standing behind her. "These are Kirdwin and Kagi, my spouses and members of my crew."

Jon nodded to them cordially, wondering where this was leading. "Can we help you?"

"I am looking for a species called the QueeOralla," she said. "Crewing a vessel called the _KibbiVolaTiep_. I have reason to believe they were recently in this sector of space. Do you know of them?"

"We do," Jon said carefully. His heart had started to pound double-time, but he wasn't sure if it was from hope or fear. "We happen to be looking for them ourselves. May I ask how you've been able to follow them?"

Soph hesitated, taking a second to glance at the Denobulan man behind her. He only blinked impassively, his expression betraying nothing.

"We have been following their warp signature," she said at last, "though it has been difficult. They are particularly adept at cloaking themselves."

"We've noticed that ourselves," Jon said neutrally. "Are these QueeOralla friends of yours?" He hoped not—and it definitely appeared not—but he had to make sure. If he guessed wrong here it was likely the _Enterprise_ would be in for one hell of a fight.

A fight without either her tactical officer or chief of engineering. Jon quickly pushed that thought aside.

"No," Soph answered succinctly. "They are liars and thieves." Her eyes flashed as she spoke, revealing a sudden ferocity that was almost alarming.

_Thieves_. "They have...stolen from us as well," Jon said, stepping closer to the screen. "We've been looking for them too. Maybe we can help each other."

"Maybe we can," Soph said slowly. She paused as she looked at Jon, obviously considering. "Tell me, Captain Jonathan Archer," she said, "are you missing any member of your crew?"

Jon's heart rate leaped up another notch. "Yes," he said. "My Armory Officer. They abducted him nearly four days ago."

The Denobulan's eyebrows narrowed, and she spat something the UT wouldn't translate, though out of the corner of his eye Jon saw Hoshi blushing. "It seems we have much in common, Captain," Soph said. "Three weeks ago, they abducted my second wife and Weaponsmaster. We have been tracking them every since, and now their trail has led to you."

* * *

"Damn it, Ari—can't you just _ask_ him to take it off? This cast is driving me fucking nuts."

Ari wordlessly picked up Ian's foot and gently gripped his ankle.

"Ow!" Ian flinched, then glared back at him. "All right, all right. You made your point. Put my goddamn foot down."

"You only have to wear the walking cast for maybe another three days at most, Ian," Ari said. He expertly fastened the cast back onto Ian's ankle as he spoke. "And it's not like it's so bad to wear or anything, eh? It's lighter than your boot."

"I know," Ian grumbled. "I feel lopsided." When Ari raised an eyebrow at him he sighed. "I know...I know...It's not that." He gestured around them, taking in all of Sick Bay. "I'm just sick of this—light duties and having to come in for checkups every day. I just..." He shook his head. "I just want to be _doing_ something."

Ari straightened up. "I know what you mean." He nodded with his chin towards the workstation, where Phlox and Kagi from the Denobulan ship were sitting close together, their heads bent near one of the computer screens. "They've been like that all day, working out how to destroy the nanoprobes infecting Commander Tucker and Lieutenant Reed. I only get a bit of what they're talking about." He gave a small laugh. "I think they've sent me to the mess about twelve times to get tea."

Ian laughed for real, showing a flash of white teeth. "You should've just gotten Chef to give you a whole cooler full. Just set it up next to the imager."

"Good idea." Ari grinned.

Ian shifted his gaze to watch the two Denobulans, and his smile faded. "I heard that the captain ordered Tucker confined to quarters, had him locked in like an animal or something."

"That's not true!" Ari exclaimed. When Ian swung his gaze back around to him he added quickly, "I mean, the commander is in his quarters. But it's not like that. Tucker _asked_ to be confined." Ari couldn't help wincing as he spoke. "He was worried about being a danger to the rest of the crew."

"Christ." Ian said softly. "That was brave." He shook his head. "I can't even imagine what that'd be like, wondering when you're just gonna snap." He began watching the two Denobulan physicians again. "I wonder how long he's got."

"He seemed okay this morning," Ari said, "when Phlox and I went to check on him. I mean," he added after a moment, "considering he said he couldn't sleep. And he didn't want to eat anything." Ari shrugged helplessly. "I just wish there was something I could do."

Ian snorted. "Welcome to my goddamn nightmare."

Ari smirked, mouth crooking in a sad smile. "Thanks."

"I don't get it," Ian said. "I just don't get it. I can't believe that anyone would want to...fuck up a person like that. It was bad enough when we all figured it was just an accident, eh? Like: 'Oh, sorry, but the best officer on the ship's gonna go nuts because we wanted some fucking equipment.' But doing it on _purpose_..." He looked down at his feet. "I can't figure it out. Who would _do_ that? What the hell for?"

Ari leaned on the biobed next to where his friend was sitting. "An experiment, maybe? Maybe seeing how humans react to severe alterations in their brain chemistry?"

"Denobulans too, then," Ian said, nodding at the workstation. He shook his head. "It doesn't make any sense. Why would they care?"

"I don't know," Ari said. "Stephanie told me that the QueeOralla hadn't had a war in thousands of years. Maybe they're just curious about violence."

"Yeah. They said that when they were scoping the armory," Ian glowered at the memory. "All purring and twittering and shit. Like hell." He made a noise of disgust. "Maybe they just need soldiers." He stopped, eyes going wide. "Holy fuck."

"What?" Ari asked. "What is it?"

"Oh my god," Ian said. He slid off the biobed, favoring his cast-up foot. "Oh my fucking god." He looked at Ari. "I gotta go speak to the captain."

* * *

He woke up shivering, with the blood of the guard on his hands. He could feel his own blood, cold against his face, neck and chest. He guessed he had been unconscious for some time.

PallaTul and PallaNim were hovering outside his cage, floater chairs positioned carefully just beyond his reach. Their white faces glowed softly in the semi-darkness.

He stood, glaring back at them, their impassive, jewel-colored eyes. He could kill them so easily; snap their little bones like sticks, if he'd just been able to reach them. It was hard to stand still, to stay quiet and calm when all he wanted to do was tear them both apart. He was so angry.

PallaNim turned to his bright-white companion. "You see? He isn't doing well," he said in his mewling voice. He was pulling worriedly at his whiskers. "The bleeding has started, just like with the Denobulan, but it's only been days." The QueeOralla was all but keening in anxiety.

"That is bad," PallaTul agreed. She cocked her fluffy head in consideration, though her floater chair didn't move. "But we'll be in range in just a few more hours, yes? So he can still be used."

"Used, yes," PallaNim said. "But not for long." He meowed sadly. "Not for very long."

"It would be sad indeed," PallaTul purred, "to lose such a beauty as this." She turned sharply to her companion and her floater chair bobbed. Malcolm bared his teeth, his whole body quivering, but she hadn't moved any nearer. "I told you we should have taken more," she hissed. "The one he fought for us, or the female, or the tall one with the pretty orange hair." PallaNim was wringing his hands. "I know. I'm so sorry I didn't listen." He sighed miserably in a long, drawn-out purr.

PallaTul reached over and took PallaNim's hand. "Don't worry," she said soothingly, "perhaps we will find a new ship, with other creatures that won't die so quickly. Vulcans, perhaps. Vulcans are very strong."

"Yes!" PallaNim said. His whiskers perked up. "That's a splendid idea. We shall find Vulcans."

PallaTul turned her luminescent eyes on Malcolm. She pointed commandingly at the square of black still lying in a corner of his cage. "Put your uniform on, Lieutenant," she said. "You will require it later."

Malcolm made a harsh sound something like a laugh. "Come closer."

PallaTul's eyes narrowed like an angry cat. "Don't be difficult, Lieutenant. You'll live barely long enough to be useful as it is." She pointed again. "Put your uniform on."

Malcolm stepped forward so that he was right against the cage bars. He grinned at her. "Make me."

She hissed, leaning forward as she spat at him. "I'll have the guards come and kill you."

Malcolm lunged for her, his arm shooting out through the space in the bars. PallaTul squeaked in terror as she drew back. Her hands scrabbled for her chair controls.

Malcolm was faster, but the QueeOralla was still just out of his reach. His hand slapped down over the front of her floater chair instead of grabbing her head or hand or arm. As it was, the blow sent the small machine spinning further away from him. The small cat-like alien began shrieking in fear.

"PallaTul!" PallaNim grabbed for her with one hand, the other stabbing the buttons on his floater chair. He grabbed PallaTul's arm, and Malcolm heard the _whirring_ of PallaNim's chair as it fought against the other's momentum. PallaTul came to a jarring halt. She was still shrieking, her blue-gray tongue lolling as she panted. Malcolm watched, expressionless, as the two aliens slowly calmed down.

"I'll be glad when you're dead," PallaNim snarled at him. He turned to PallaTul, whose hands had clenched in a death grip on the arms of her floater chair. "Call the guards to kill him; he's too dangerous."

PallaTul kept panting. Her eyes were shocked and very wide. "Yes," she murmured, "yes. A good idea." Her fingertips touched the buttons on her chair arm, but hesitated.

"Do it!" Malcolm shouted, when PallaTul didn't move. He smashed his fist into the metal of his cage. Both the QueeOralla bobbed back. "Kill me! _Do it_!"

"No." PallaTul pulled her arm back. She folded her hands almost primly across her rounded belly. "No. It would be a waste. He'll die soon enough." She glanced at the black square again, then back at Malcolm's nakedness and snorted delicately. "Wear the uniform or don't, Lieutenant—it doesn't matter. Either way, we'll still get our use out of you." She turned to PallaNim, taking his hand again. "Come along." Malcolm watched them leave, their floater chairs bobbing like leaves in wind.

He automatically wiped the blood from his nose. He was still trembling.

"Dying," he whispered. His voice sounded like shards of glass. He was dying. Like the Denobulan, like all the rest of them, only faster. PallaNim had said as much.

And all he felt was relief.

* * *

Jon bowed his head over the Situation Room table at rubbed at his eye with the heel of his palm. "Are you sure they wouldn't be interested in Memchetti Two?" he asked the stern Denobulan captain standing at the opposite side of the table from him. He hated the weariness in his voice as he spoke, but he was damn tired. It felt like they'd been arguing over possible trajectories for the _KibbiVolaTiep_ for days, rather than hours. All he wanted to do was check on Trip; find out how the commander was doing. And maybe sleep, if he could. But he'd made a promise and this was the only way to keep it.

"Memchetti Two is in the midst of a brutal civil war, as I told you," Soph snapped. "Why do you persist in this belief that they'd want to go there? We already know their methods—they find lone ships and beguile the crew, so they can arrange to be alone with their victims. Nothing about that makes sense on a battlefield."

Jon had never imagined that a Denobulan could be so short-tempered or aggravating, but then he had never met one who had a wife kidnapped, either. "But that makes it a perfect place for them to go then, don't you think? If any pursuers will just dismiss it and look somewhere else?"

Soph looked askance at him. "Don't be stupid."

"Soph," Kirdwin spoke up, his tone mildly admonishing. He had been so quiet Jon had all but forgotten he was there. "The Captain is trying to help us."

"I realize that," Soph snapped back at him. Jon was perversely pleased that her tone hadn't changed, even for her husband. "But what he is saying is ridiculous. What reason do the QueeOralla have to hide from us? Not even the combined firepower of both our vessels could possibly hurt them."

That was true, though it didn't do Jon's mood any good to hear it. They hadn't even begun to find a solution to that problem: how to get their crew off a ship they couldn't even damage. He had been privately hoping a possibility would come up when they found the _KibbiVolaTiep_ again. But right now they seemed no closer to that than before the _Bright Path of Stars_ had arrived.

Over Soph's shoulder, Jon saw the turbolift open, and Ensign Ian Young walk across the bridge, heading to the Situation Room. Young was still limping and was wearing a walking cast, evidence of Malcolm's attack on him. "If you'll excuse me for a moment," he said to the two Denobulans. He barely waited for Soph's grudging nod before climbed back onto the bridge to meet Ian halfway. He hoped this wasn't more bad news, though he was glad for a break from the wrath of Captain Soph.

"Captain," Ian said when Jon had come up to him. The ensign had snapped to attention, obviously wanting something important. "I need to speak with you."

* * *

"Go ahead, Ensign," Archer said to him. The captain glanced around the bridge. "Or do you need someplace more private?"

"No Sir," Ian said quickly, "this is fine." He shifted to an at-ease stance, suddenly nervous. This was too important to screw up. "I have to ask you something, though. The crewmember who was taken from the Denobulan ship—did she work in security, or with weapons or anything like that?"

Archer blinked, then looked at him curiously. "How did you know that?"

Ian had to hold back a whoop of triumph. It meant he was right. "I think the QueeOralla need people with military training, Sir," he said. "I'm sure that's why they took Lieutenant Reed."

In the second he had to wait for a reaction, Ian was sure the captain was going to dismiss him outright, or come down on him like a ton of bricks for wasting his time. But instead the captain crossed his arms and nodded at him. "Go on."

"Yes Sir," Ian said smartly, though inside he was grinning. "They said they were peaceful, right?" When Archer nodded again he continued. "But what if they meant that they still have wars—but they're just not the ones who fight them? What if they steal the soldiers from other races?"

Archer's brows knit as he considered. "We have no proof that they fight over anything."

"Well, maybe not," Ian answered immediately. He was starting to feel nervous again, wondering if he was about to be told this was just dumbass wishful thinking. "But why else would they take weapons officers? Or, or maybe they don't use their victims themselves. Maybe they fu—mess with their heads so they can sell them to other species as mercenaries." He was silently pleading with Archer as he spoke, begging him to agree; at least to think about what he was saying. "The thing is, we have to start looking for war zones, Sir. I'm sure of it. Some place where they'd need soldiers."

Archer lifted one hand to cover his chin, his thumb touching his lips. Ian waited, sure in the next second he would be thanked curtly and dismissed; that he'd fucked up totally and hadn't explained it right, so that the captain would think he was stupid or crazy or worse. _I should have gotten Ari to do this instead_ , Ian thought miserably. _He wouldn't have screwed up something this important. He's way better at this kind of shit than I am_.

"T'Pol," Archer said then, speaking to the Vulcan sub-commander at her science station, "how far are we from Memchetti Two?"

"This is insane!" The Denobulan captain spoke up from the Situation Room. Ian had never seen a Denobulan looking that angry. "Why do you persist in wasting time?"

Archer whirled on her. "Do you have a better option, _Captain_?" He stressed her title like it was some kind of insult. Soph glared death at him, but didn't say anything else. "Good," Archer said briskly. He turned back to the Sub-Commander. "T'Pol?"

"We are approximately thirteen hours away at warp 4.5," T'Pol said.

"Excellent. Thank you, Sub-Commander," Archer said. He seemed to be piling on the professional courtesy just to piss off the Denobulan. Ian thought it was great. "Fraiser," Archer said to the ensign at the helm, "please set a course."

"Aye aye, Sir," Bonnie said. She sounded quietly thrilled. Ian was totally with her on that.

"T'Pol," Archer spoke to the Vulcan again. She looked at him expectantly. "As soon as we're in range, I'd like you to scan for Human and Denobulan biosigns."

"Yes, Captain," she said, then calmly turned back to her instruments.

"Thank you, Ian," Archer said privately to him. "Your idea may be just the break we needed."

"Thank _you_ , Sir," Ian said. He was probably grinning like an idiot, but he didn't care.

* * *

"Son of a bitch!"

The PADD hit the far wall of Trip's quarters in a small explosion of metal and plastic. Trip watched, stunned, as the pieces bounced and skittered across the floor. He hadn't known he was going to do that.

Trip was sitting on his bunk, and now he leaned back against the wall behind him. He covered his face with his hands. "Get a grip," he whispered, "get a grip. You have to keep it together." He could feel the butterfly tremors of his fingers against his skin; his heart pounding so fast it was almost hard to breathe. His head was a burning vice of pain.

He had been in his quarters since late evening of the day before. Now it was well past midnight. He couldn't sleep; had stopped even trying. Instead he had been helping Phlox and the Denobulan doctor from the _Bright Path of Stars_ , creating treatment simulations from the information they sent to him.

So far nothing was working. Phlox had gone back to the research he had started after being infected with nanoprobes himself, before he'd realized he had to use radiation. But, dealing with the QueeOralla nanoprobes as if they were a disease wasn't doing any good either. In all the tests they had done on his blood samples, and in all Trip's simulations, the nanoprobes only succumbed to radiation, nothing else.

And they couldn't use radiation. Radiation would kill him.

And in the meantime, he was getting worse. He could feel it, his control slipping away one jagged shard at a time. When Phlox and Ari had come to check on him at noon, Ari had walked in first and Trip had almost attacked him. Trip had wanted to hurt the medic so badly it was terrifying; in the end that was all that had stopped him: the horror at what he was about to do.

In the evening they had brought one of the security team with them—Trip had told them they needed to.

Trip got shakily off the bed and crossed the room to the remains of the PADD. He knelt and started gathering up the pieces. There was a solution to this. There had to be. But it was so hard to concentrate: like every idea just disintegrated whenever he tried to focus on it, slipped out of his mind. And he was restless as a caged animal. And in so much pain.

"They're machines, Trip," he muttered to himself, staring down at the collection of chips and wires in his hands. "They're machines. You understand machines." He shifted until he was sitting cross-legged on the floor, still holding the destroyed PADD. "All right. What would you do to a machine if you wanted to break it?"

He laughed, because he had just broken a machine, then had to squeeze his eyes shut against a sudden new jolt of pain. It was followed by a wave of anger so intense it left him shaking and sweating. _Calm down. Calm down. Calm down_. He opened his eyes, breathing heavily. He realized he'd clenched his hands hard enough that they were bleeding, cut by the bits of the PADD.

"Oh god," he whispered, staring dully at the red on his fingers and palms. "You've got to work this out, Trip. You're running out of time." He took a deep breath, trying to concentrate. He dropped the pieces of machinery and they clattered back to the floor. "Okay, okay. Machine. You wanna break a machine. But it's in a building you _don't_ want to break. What do you do?"

He closed his eyes again, thinking. It felt like trying to filter his thoughts through sand. "...Target their weapons systems. Shit." He put his hands to the sides of his head. He couldn't do this.

Trip lurched to his feet, staggering through another crest of pain. He crossed the room again, this time going to the comm panel by his door. He thumbed it on. "Tucker to Cormack."

There was a slight pause, then, "This is Cormack. Commander? Are you all right?" She sounded surprisingly alert, considering it was the middle of the night.

"Peachy," Trip answered. He was leaning against the wall, eyes shut against the endless roll of agony in his head. It was getting hard to speak against it. "Listen, Steph—I need your help."

There was another pause, this time a little bit longer. "I can't let you out, Sir."

"Shut up and listen to me!" He hadn't meant to be so harsh, but he couldn't help it. "I need a weapon. A kind of weapon. Something that can destroy machines on the other side of walls."

"Like a missile?"

"Damn it, Steph!" Trip shouted, smacking his palm against the door. It hurt. "I'm not playing games here!" He gritted his teeth, swallowed. _Calm down. You gotta calm down_.

"I'm sorry Sir," Stephanie said. "I just woke up." She sounded guarded, not that Trip could blame her. He wondered if she had opened a channel to the armory already, if any second the Gamma shift security were going to barge in, phase pistols blasting.

He took a deep breath, wishing his heart wasn't beating so fast. He could practically feel the adrenaline coursing through his veins. "It's okay," he answered her, "It's just...I'm not doin' too well here. I need your help."

"Of course, Sir," she said, as serious as he'd ever heard her. "I'll do everything I can."

"Great." Trip sucked in air again. "All right. You know the situation. How can I get rid of these robots inside me without killing myself? I keep thinkin' there's some kind of weapon that can do that—damage circuitry without hurtin' organic stuff—but I can't remember what it is."

"You're right," Stephanie said after a moment. "I think they used something like that in the last war. Wait a sec." He heard her moving in her room, the unmistakable sound of her desk console clicking on. "Hang on...I'm doing a search on it now." Trip waited, impatience eating at him like insects. The cuts on his hands had started to sting.

"Got it!" The sudden shout of triumph startled him, and Trip clenched his hands unconsciously, then grimaced as his nails caught the edges of his sliced skin.

"What?" he asked her, working to keep his voice even.

"E-bombs!" Stephanie explained excitedly. He could just about hear her grinning. "High-power microwave weapons. They were used during World War Three to screw up electrical equipment like computers and radar systems. It's a microsecond burst of electromagnetic pulses: long enough to overwhelm circuitry, but too short to hurt organic tissue. It hasn't been used in decades because all the equipment these days is shielded against radiation."

All the equipment made by _humans_ , Trip amended silently, but maybe not by QueeOralla. God, he hoped not by QueeOralla.

Stephanie spoke into the silence, her voice now sounding more uncertain. "Is that what you were thinking of, Sir? Will that help?"

"Thank you, Ensign." Trip's voice was rough. "It might. It just might." He pressed his forehead against the cool metal wall, forcing himself to stay rational, to think. The almost painful jab of hope had done nothing to ease the ache in his head or cut his roiling emotions. "Okay," he swallowed. "I need you to do a couple more things for me."

"Of course, Sir," Stephanie answered immediately, all business again. "What do you need?"

"Contact Phlox," Trip told her, "and give him that information. Next," and he was actually able to smile, "I think I'm gonna need an escort to Sick Bay."

* * *

The black uniform the armadillo-like alien had dropped in his cage was still there: smooth and shining in the dim light.

Malcolm paced in his cage; back and forth, back and forth, back and forth, dragging one palm then another along the bars. In the cage beside him the female Varoshe was shouting something, trying to get his attention, but he ignored her. Across from him the Denobulan woman grinned like death. She kept hitting the bars with her palms, over and over and over again. She had put on the outfit. Nearly everyone was wearing the black jumpsuit, except him.

The cage next to hers, the one where the Klingon had been, was still empty.

Some time ago an announcement had blared out at them from some internal communications system. He supposed it was being translated automatically, the way the prisoner's languages must have been. He recognized the voice as PallaTul.

They were all going into battle, on behalf of the Memchetti Kret for the glory of the Memchetti Kret Ascendancy, whatever the hell that was.

He didn't want to fight. He knew he didn't. Somewhere he could feel that, like a tiny drop of light in what was left of his mind. But the rest of him...

The animal he was now bared its teeth, grinning wickedly in anticipation. He was shuddering like a horse about to bolt, scarcely able to contain his energy, his need. His heartbeat thudded in his ears, heavy and fast, and he was keenly aware of the blood churning through his body. He felt powerful and wild and very, very dangerous.

And soon, soon, they would unleash him. Soon they would let him out.

He walked over to the folded garment and picked it up, absently wiping his bloody nose on his arm. It was made of a thick material that reminded him of leather, though lightweight and very smooth. It was soft under his fingers, but he couldn't make it tear, not even when he used his teeth.

It was nice to have clothes again. It was a one-piece suit, complete with covering for his feet and hands. The built-in boots were no thicker than the rest of the suit, but had solid, textured soles that he assumed were for traction. The knees and elbows were reinforced with thin, raised strips of the same material, as were all the joints of his fingers. The suit sealed seamlessly up to his neck, almost like the material was gluing itself together. He idly wondered if he would be able to get it off again. He ran his palm down his chest, feeling the peculiar smoothness of the material. Despite its dark color, it seemed to reflect rather than absorb the light.

It fit perfectly, which intrigued him. He had no idea if that were some special property of the garment, or something much simpler: perhaps the QueeOralla had him measured during the times they had knocked him out. There certainly had been ample opportunity.

He wondered what their weapons would be. He hoped they would get weapons.

He began to pace again. Back and forth, back and forth. Blank-eyed, like an animal. His gloved palms slipped smoothly from bar to bar, barely making a sound. All that mattered now was the waiting. Soon they would let him out.

* * *

Ensign Stephanie Cormack and Crewman Mark Zabel stood in front of the door to Commander Tucker's quarters. They both had phase pistols holstered at their hips, set to stun. "Well, here goes," Stephanie said. She hit the comm.

"Commander Tucker? It's me, Stephanie. I have Zabel with me. We're here to escort you to Sick Bay."

"Great." Tucker's reply sounded breathy and tense. "C'mon in."

Stephanie glanced at Mark. "Get ready," she said quietly. She punched in the lock code she'd gotten from Phlox. The door slid open.

Tucker's large quarters were brightly lit, reflecting off the white furniture and the bronze sheen of an antique diving helmet. She saw the shattered pieces of a demolished PADD on the floor. The commander was sitting with his back against the far wall, under the window. Outside the stars streaked past, testament to how fast the ship was going to get to Memchetti Two. Tucker had his knees drawn up to his chest and his arms wrapped around his legs. He was breathing fast, close to hyperventilating. But when he saw the two security crew walk in he gave them a tremulous smile.

"Better make this fast," he said.

"Of course, Sir," Stephanie said cordially. She ignored how fast her heart was beating. "We'll need you to stand up, please, and to put your arms out." She pulled one of her plastic wrist binders out of the small pouch on her belt as she spoke. "I'm afraid I'm going to have to restrain you, Sir."

A flash of anger flickered through the commander's blue eyes, then was either suppressed or buried. "Sure," he said quietly, "I understand." He pulled himself upright, holding his arms out the way she'd asked him to.

Stephanie nodded to Mark and started forward. Mark followed just slightly behind her and to the side, giving himself a clear line of fire. They both had their hands over their phase pistols, ready to draw them immediately if they needed to. It seemed insane—treating the warm and well-loved commander as if he were some violent criminal. But then just a few days ago Stephanie had been forced to attack Lieutenant Reed, one of her best friends, to keep him from killing Ian. She hadn't forgotten the fierce joy in Malcolm's eyes, his detached ease when he'd smashed Ian's collarbone, ribs and ankle, then went for the Ensign's head. She didn't think she'd ever be able to.

She just had to remember this Trip Tucker wasn't entirely the man she knew.

"I'm going to bind your wrists now, Sir," she said. She glanced up at Tucker as she moved the binder over his hands. His expression was completely calm.

Then something sparked in Tucker's eyes, and he moved his hand before she could react. He grabbed her wrist and twisted it violently, hooking one of her ankles with his foot to throw her to the floor. Stephanie recognized the move—Malcolm had taught it to her as well.

"Sorry," Tucker said, but he was grinning. He kept twisting her wrist, sending shocks of pain up her arm. If she didn't move tendons were going to snap.

"Me too," Stephanie ground out. The countermove to this would really hurt him. But even as her foot connected with his kneecap she saw the flash of light that meant Mark had fired his phase pistol. Stephanie rolled away from Tucker as he fell.

She was on her feet instantly and in a fighting stance, prepared to defend herself again if the commander moved. Mark kept his pistol trained on Tucker's body.

"You okay?" Mark asked. He didn't take his eyes away from the commander.

"I'm fine, thanks," Stephanie said, rubbing her wrist. She was going to have a bruise and then some. Tucker was completely still, so Stephanie knelt and checked the pulse at his neck. It made her wince to feel how fast his heart was going, but at least his pulse was steady and strong. His breathing was all right too, though still far too fast. "We'd better move," she said to Mark, "I don't know how long he's going to stay out." She looked at Mark, then back to Tucker. "Think you'll be able to carry him?"

"Probably." Mark shrugged with one shoulder, reholstering his pistol as he spoke. "At least most of the way. Why?"

Stephanie gave him a bleak smile. "Because I'm gonna be walking behind you. And if he so much as twitches I'm shooting him again."

* * *

_A ring of metal. A ring of metal and light_.

He was inside the medical imager. He recognized it, the light and the round, cramped space and the particular sound it made when it was working.

Trip Tucker blinked; snapped fully awake. His hands were tied: wrists crossed and bound with the plastic strips they used in security. He kicked out with his bare feet, but they only moved clumsily, tied together at the ankles.

They'd put him in restraints. Just like Malcolm. Because he'd hurt Stephanie, tried to break her arm. He still wanted to. That and more. He knew that was a bad thing—that he would want to hurt anyone. But he did, he did. He had to get out of this machine.

Trip lifted both his feet together and began methodically kicking at the closed hatch of the cylinder, bracing himself by pressing his palms against the smooth metal behind him. If he damaged the imager they'd have to let him out.

The lights surrounding him changed, getting brighter, and the sound rose in pitch. He kicked harder. Maybe they were bombarding him with electromagnetic pulses, from the info Stephanie had found for him. He wouldn't even know—but that was okay. It meant he didn't have to fight. Once it was finished they'd let him out again.

He stopped kicking, watching quietly as the lights cycled down again, the sound level returning to normal. He was sweating, breathing too fast. It felt like there wasn't enough oxygen. Maybe there wasn't; maybe they were going to kill him, let him suffocate in here. That didn't make any sense, but his head hurt so bad it was hard to think straight. They had to let him out.

Trip was about to start kicking again when the hatch finally opened and the diagnostic bed he was on slid out into the open space of Sickbay. He bucked and twisted, trying to get off the bed; trying to reach his ankles so he could undo the bindings. Someone grabbed his shoulders, holding him down. He tried to kick out again, and then someone—Stephanie?—grabbed his legs as well.

He snarled, furious, and was suddenly looking up into the calm blue eyes of Phlox. Trip tried to hit him, striking upward with his two hands.

Phlox ducked back, catching one of Trip's arms in his hands. The doctor was surprisingly strong, and Trip couldn't get free despite his struggling. "Let me go!" he shouted. "Damn you, let me go!" Someone was still pinning him down by the shoulders, but Phlox was in the way, so he couldn't see who it was.

"In good time, Commander," Phlox said mildly, though he was straining to keep hold of Trip's arm. "But perhaps when you're feeling more yourself, hmmm?" He brought up his free hand, and all but jabbed something into Trip's neck.

A hypospray. Trip heard the familiar _hiss_ , felt the momentary touch of cold as something rushed into his veins. The roaring agony in his head faded like it had never existed at all.

Trip blinked, suddenly tired. It felt like he was sinking; gently fading like the pain. "It doesn't hurt," he whispered. The lack of hurting was amazing.

"That's right." Phlox grinned at him. "Welcome back, Commander."

But Trip had already sunk completely into gentle darkness.

* * *

Their instructions were simple: Kill anything that moved.

Some time before, two items had been transported into his cage, appearing simultaneously in a swirl of greenish light. One was a helmet, black and sleek like his uniform. He could see out of the faceplate clearly, but it was completely opaque looking in.

The other was a pair of long and beautiful knives.

They were different from knives he had seen or used before: rather like bayonets in shape, except that the blade was wider, running up into a gentle curve before the pointed tip. There was no grip, no pommel or crossguard. Instead, the knives had a metal ring at the base and a grip near the point. Malcolm slipped his arm through the ring, fitting the grip into his hand. The blade pressed tightly to the side of his forearm, with part of the knife extending out several centimeters beyond his hand. Using the knives would be almost like having talons, the blades becoming extensions of his arms.

Not an efficient way to kill by any means, but still effective.

They had been told that their targets, the Memchetti Vrii, would be using energy weapons. The suits the prisoners had been given would protect them completely, scattering the energy like water off glass. Malcolm wasn't sure he believed them. If the suits were so effective, after all, why hasn't the Memchetti Kret used them themselves and already won the war?

No. Something else was going on here. This attack was meant to be psychological. The overly dramatic black suits and opaque helmets indicated as much. And otherwise they would have been given guns, not knives. Guns killed much more quickly, could take down far more targets than knives ever could. Of course, it may have been simply that the QueeOralla didn't want their soldiers shooting each other before the battle even started, but Malcolm doubted that. They had been given knives because they were meant to look like predators, meant to cause terror as much as destruction.

And knives, knives were a terrible way to die.

He stood in the center of his cage, covered by the leather-like black suit and wearing the black helmet. Everything looked slightly darker through the faceplate, but it was easy enough to deal with. He licked his lips and tasted blood, but he was used to that by now.

The knives were snug against his forearms, the grips forming easily to his palms. They shimmered ever so slightly as his body shook. And he waited.

He didn't even feel it when the QueeOralla transporter changed him from flesh and bone into light. But suddenly he was standing on hard-packed earth, looking towards what could only be dwellings: rounded structures made out of shell or stone. It was raining in torrents, sluicing over him, drumming over his helmet and beading off his uniform.

The other prisoners were standing around him. He could feel their eagerness like heat. He looked to his left, to the faceless black helmet looking back at him. His hands unconsciously tightened around the grips of his knives. The prisoner next to him was so close...all he would have to do was turn, every so slightly, and stab—

From somewhere deep in the village, a sniper fired. Malcolm watched with mild interest as a flash became a bolt of light that sizzled when it hit the ground at his feet. Maybe it was a warning shot, or maybe the Memchetti Vrii didn't know how to aim.

But it was as if that was the signal they had been waiting for. Almost as one they started running, descending on the village like vicious, black-skinned predators. Like death; knives flashing and scattering rain. Someone let out a cry of savage joy. Maybe it was him.

* * *

There was still a good hour to go before the beginning of Alpha shift, but the lights were on already when Jon came through the Sick Bay doors. Today it was Liz Cutler on the early shift. She turned at the sound of the door opening and smiled at him.

"Morning, Captain."

He gave her a brief smile, though he didn't stop. He went right to the recovery beds—the third one, where Trip was.

Trip was sleeping soundly, relaxed and unmoving. He looked innocent and absolutely serene. Jon watched him breathe and felt his heart clench; a relief so strong it was almost like pain.

"You should have called me earlier," he said to Phlox. He had heard the doctor come quietly to stand beside him.

"There was no need," Phlox said mildly. "I had Ari forward you all the pertinent information." He glanced sideways at him. "And we both know you needed your sleep."

"You should have called me anyway," Jon said, though there was no rancor in his voice. He reached out and touched Trip's forehead with his fingertips, softly brushing the messy hair back. "It really worked," he said, barely daring to believe it. "He's going to be all right."

"Oh yes," Phlox nodded. "I'm keeping him sedated for the time being, just until his acetylcholine levels return to normal, but he'll be completely recovered after that. Oh," he added, a bit apologetically, "I'm afraid his left knee will be rather sore for a few days. Apparently Ensign Cormack had to use some of her security training on him. He was, ah, less than accommodating when it came to returning to Sick Bay."

Jon chuckled, shaking his head. "Poor Stephanie. At this rate she'll be thinking she was brought on board just to beat up on senior officers." It was so good to feel like laughing again at anything.

Phlox turned to Jon and grinned. "Well, I must say I hope that aspect of her duties will be short-lived, hmmm? It's difficult enough dealing with Mr. Reed when he's in his right mind."

"True enough," Jon agreed, but his own smile was already fading. _Enterprise_ had entered into orbit over Memchetti Two during Gamma shift, but so far their scans had shown no recognizable humanoid biosigns. Captain Soph had grudgingly ordered her crew to conduct the same scans, but even the superior Denobulan technology had failed to find anything. Jon was worried that there would be nothing to find; that Memchetti Two was actually a dead end and not the answer Ian Young had been so sure of. And if that happened Jon was completely out of options. Even if Soph agreed to continue helping them, there was only so much her ship could do. And the trail was nearly two days old.

"Captain?"

Jon looked away from Trip, focusing again on the Denobulan. "Sorry," he said, "I was just thinking." He sighed. "I promised him I'd get Malcolm back. I don't know if I'm going to be able to do it."

"I see," Phlox said. "I'm truly sorry." Jon knew how much the doctor meant it—he and Malcolm were good friends. "I wish there was something I could do to help."

If Phlox were human Jon would have put his hand on the man's shoulder, but he knew Denobulan's didn't like to be touched. "I know," Jon said. "But you've done more than enough already. Trip owes you his life." And Jon knew he would never be able to convey his gratitude for that, for Phlox bringing his friend back to him. It felt almost as if he owed the Denobulan his own life as well.

"Mr. Tucker deserves the praise for that, and Ensign Cormack," Phlox said dismissively. "I merely implemented the cure they discovered."

"Well," Jon said, knowing there was no point in arguing, " _when_ we get Malcolm back, you'll be doing a lot to help. We're going to need you to fix him up the way you did Trip." He kept his voice deliberately light, as if what he was saying was a certainty rather than an increasingly desperate hope.

"Excuse me, Sirs," Liz Cutler was coming towards them, walking quickly. She glanced at Trip and smiled at him. "I'm sorry to interrupt, Captain, but you're being called to the bridge." Her smile turned into a beaming grin. "Apparently a few seconds ago a large group of humanoids were transported down to the planet's surface. One of them registered with Lieutenant Reed's biosign."

Jon blinked, momentarily stunned. "They found him? He's _there_?"

"Congratulations, Captain," Phlox said brightly. He gave Jon one of his alien overlarge smiles. "It seems you'll be able to keep your promise after all."

* * *

Malcolm thrust his arm out as he turned, slicing a neat line through the armadillo's throat with his knife. He followed it up with a kick that would have shattered the alien's shin had he—she?—been human. He had already learned that these creatures didn't seem to have bones to break, but the alien's leg dented brutally where it caught the sole of his foot. The armadillo gurgled as he crashed to the ground, clutching ineffectively at the deep copper blood seeping from his slashed neck. The gun fell from the alien's scrabbling hands and his barbed tail thrashed as if in death throes all its own.

Malcolm ignored all of it, leaping over the body towards his next target. This alien got a blast off from her weapon (this one definitely seemed female: smaller and darker colored, if these armadillo-beings had human-type dimorphism) before Malcolm could close the distance between them. She had good aim—the shot hit him in the stomach. He felt the burn of it spread out like licking tongues of fire, but his suit caught the majority of the energy and scattered it away from him.

She fired again, but this time Malcolm had tracked the movement and ducked just as she squeezed the trigger. The beam passed harmlessly over his right shoulder, marking its passage with a sizzle of evaporating rain. Then he was too close to her to let the alien aim again. He stabbed her with the knife on his left arm, watching her night-black eyes go wide with shock and pain. She screamed, the sound strangely human, and lashed out with her tail. He twisted to the side, barely avoiding the strike as he yanked his arm back. The creature's eyes went blank just before she fell.

He immediately leapt to his right, shoulder hunched so he could tackle another armadillo. He felt the armor over the alien's chest give under his weight, then slashed downward, catching the creature's belly and leg. Malcolm jumped back, turning to his next opponent, not even looking to see if the other was wounded or dead.

He felt a second blast hit him, pain searing along his ribs, but he disregarded it, bringing his crossed arms up automatically to deflect another tail barb stabbing at his face. He pulled his arms apart, and the severed barb dropped, smacking against his faceplate, then sliding to the ground. He blinked automatically, though the sheet of plastic kept the blood and ichor out of his eyes.

He was grinning wildly, feeling the warm slide of blood every time he touched his tongue to his teeth. The heavy pulse of agony in his head surged and ebbed like his heartbeat, heated his blood like fire. This was his purpose; why he had been reborn in the blood of his lover and his friend. Malcolm was gone, nothing left but a shell and a name. He was a predator: black and sleek and deadly. He was fire and death and pain.

He caught a flicker of brown leathery armor out of the corner of his eye and turned, automatically striking out with his right hand.

Something slid into his opposite side. He heard a rib snap, felt a blade grate over bone. There was a trail of acid as a knife turned, pressed deeper into him. He snapped his head around and was looking at the Varoshe. Her helmet was off, her hair and sweet downy fur plastered wet from the rain. She smiled at him, showing dripping pointed teeth, then said something that without the QueeOralla's UT he couldn't understand.

Malcolm fell to his knees, and she dropped with him, sealed to him by her knife buried in his side. He was aware of the battle continuing: the sounds of the guns firing, the shouts and screams. But it was like the Varoshe had cast a kind of shield around them, protecting them both in stillness and silence. He could only see her, those beautiful and soulless eyes. He couldn't move.

Then her smile became vicious, and she yanked her blade out, and the world rushed in again.

Malcolm screamed, pushing her away automatically, his own blades cutting her chest. He fell back from the pain. He felt the hard earth against his back, the endless drumming of the rain against his helmet. His knife blades dug furrows into the ground, useless now that he had no strength to wield them.

The Varoshe was kneeling next to him, and he could feel her arm around his shoulders, lifting him away from the ground. Her other hand took the chin guard of his helmet, tilting it gently until the helmet came off, falling away behind him.

She was looking down at him tenderly. Her free hand cupped his face, the flat of her knife blade resting softly against the side of his head. She said something else, then leaned down to him. He felt the warm wetness of her tongue, lapping catlike at the blood running over his lips. Then her predator's kiss: the sharp points of her teeth against his throat. Her jaw tightened as her teeth sank into him. She was moving slowly, almost sensually, exulting in what she did.

He tried to shout a warning, before the alien stabbed her with his tail barb, but he had no breath and she was crushing his throat. The stinger pierced the Varoshe's shoulder, and her teeth ripped out of him as she shrieked, throwing her head back. She fell, convulsing. Her lips began frothing with delicate, golden-colored foam.

Malcolm watched her die through a growing haze of red, blinking through the ceaseless rain. He moved his right arm sluggishly, dropping the grip of his knife. He pressed his palm against his throat, feeling the blood pulsing out of the wound. He was cold. The bleeding gouge in his side had dulled to an almost inconsequential pain.

He let his hand fall back, hitting against the Varoshe's wet, unmoving arm. Rain mixed with the blood on his throat, stinging against the torn skin. He could feel the world disappearing in pieces, washing away like his blood in the rain. He welcomed it: it would be quiet, and there wasn't any pain.

* * *

Ari Cohn was in the transporter room of the _Bright Path of Stars_ , standing off to the side with Doctor Phlox. Liz Cutler was back in _Enterprise_ 's Sick Bay, making sure the imager was working right, getting it ready to bombard Lieutenant Reed with electromagnetic pulses as soon as they could throw him in there.

Ari was with Phlox in case Reed needed more help than just the microwaves. Memchetti Two was a war zone, after all, and Reed was down there somewhere in the middle of it. He might be shot up or worse when they finally found him.

_And wouldn't that just make Ian's day_. Ari had to stifle a laugh at the thought. It wasn't funny. He was just tired, that was all: tired and punchy and anxious. He wished Phlox had decided to leave him back in Sick Bay, bring Liz up here instead to stand around and try not to stare at all the dour-faced Denobulans, or the weapons most of them had pointed at the transporter pad. Liz was the one on early shift today, anyhow. He could have slept in.

This transporter room was a lot bigger than the one on _Enterprise_ , which, Ari was sure, was why they were here instead of back on his own ship. That, and the fact that the Denobulans had better technology. Ari remembered how awful Ethan Novakovich looked when he had been transported off a planet's surface in the middle of a windstorm, bits of leaves and other organic debris merged with his skin. Ari wasn't sure if _Enterprise_ 's transporter was sophisticated enough to tell the nanoprobes in Reed's body apart from the rest of him. It made a lot more sense to use the transporter on the _Bright Path of Stars_.

"Have you been able to lock on to their biosigns?" Captain Archer asked. He was standing next to a Denobulan woman who was apparently the captain of this ship. Her only response to him was a curt shake of her head, and a speaking glance at the crewman at the transporter controls.

That Denobulan shook his head, looking very forlorn and very human. "I'm having a lot of trouble finding her, Captain," he said. "The storm is creating a great deal of interference, and there seems to be something on their bodies that's deflecting our scans—it's like they're fading in and out.

"We're only looking for two biosigns, Kirdwin," the Denobulan captain snapped. "Try harder."

"Yes, Sir," Kirdwin answered smartly, though his eyes never left the transporter controls. Ari couldn't help feeling sorry for the man—he was very glad the Denobulan wasn't his captain.

"Wait...wait," Kirdwin said suddenly, head snapping up to glance at his captain, "I've got her!" He immediately turned back to his controls, hands moving madly over the buttons. "Get ready," he said, and the group of armed Denobulans seemed to tense up all at once, "transporting...now!"

The transporter pad was suddenly filled with a shimmer of yellowish light. Ari found himself tensing up too, fingering the handle of the silver medical case he'd brought. Kagi, the _Bright Path of Stars_ 's own physician, was also there of course, but Ari thought he and Phlox still might be asked to help if the rescued crewmember was in a really bad way. He couldn't help holding his breath as the light grew brighter, finally coalescing into a humanoid form.

The transporter light faded, and in its place was a female figure. That was all Ari could tell, since she was covered head to foot in black. Her jumpsuit shone brightly in the light of the room, glistening from countless drops of water. Her face was completely obscured by a helmet in the same shining black. It was oddly triangular, with the faceplate coming to a sharp edge in front. It made her look like some kind of malevolent bird.

The helmet, and the two long swords she was holding, that were somehow attached to each arm. The blades came to a curved and wicked point beyond her clenched fists, and they were also glistening: with rainwater and something viscous and coppery that could only be blood.

"Oh my god," Ari breathed. He took an unconscious step back, nearly bumping into Phlox, standing behind him. Ian was right: Reed and this woman had been taken and used to kill.

The woman had been completely still, perhaps momentarily stunned by the sudden change of environment. Then her helmeted head snapped around the moment Ari spoke. Ari couldn't see any eyes behind the opaque black of the helmet, but he knew with a terrible certainty that now they were fixed on him.

The Denobulan came towards him at a dead run.

"Fire!" Kirdwin shouted. Five energy weapons went off at once, all but one beam hitting her dead-on. She collapsed instantly, her momentum sending her toppling forward off the transporter platform. She hit the deck hard, ending up with her arms splayed almost at Ari's feet.

Kirdwin, Kagi and the Denobulan captain were beside her in the next heartbeat. Kirdwin spat out an untranslatable curse in Denobulan as he gently eased each of the horrible knives off her arms. The captain pulled off her helmet, showing a face that might have been beautiful, except the it was pinched by starvation. The woman's face ridges stood out like harsh strips of bone. Deep red blood gushed from her nose; enough that initially Ari thought it had been broken. Then he realized she was hemorrhaging, which was worse.

"Hilx! Oh Hilx, what have they done to you?" The Denobulan captain was sobbing, head bent over the unconscious woman, and Ari felt terrible for thinking any bad thoughts about her at all.

"Please, Soph," Kagi said, kneeling beside her captain, "I have to take her to the Infirmary."

Soph nodded, composing herself with obvious effort. "Of course," she said. She got to her feet, moving out of the way as two other Denobulan crew came in with an anti-grav gurney. They lifted Hilx onto it with admirable care. "Kirdwin," Soph ordered, "go with them. I'll take over here."

"Yes, Captain," Kirdwin said. He joined Kagi and her assistants next to the gurney. They quickly filed out. Ari hoped the cure Stephanie had found would work as well on Denobulans.

Archer had watched all of this in silence, but Ari could practically feel the impatience rolling off his captain in waves. Archer glanced at the transporter controls, and Ari was sure the man was gauging how difficult they might be for him to use on his own.

"I hope Hilx is all right," Archer said quietly to Soph when she took Kirdwin's place at the transporter, and Ari was amazed when Soph flashed a tiny smile of thanks at him.

Almost immediately, Soph was all business again. "Locating human biosigns," she said, her fingers moving over the controls. She frowned. "It's difficult to get a lock—there's a lot of other humanoids around him."

Archer said nothing, but Ari could see his jaw clench from the other side of the small room.

"Wait," she said after another moment. "It's like there—" She stopped, eyes widening. "His biosign is fading."

"Get him up!" Archer shouted. "Get him up now!" He all but lunged at the controls, as if he could do something the Denobulan couldn't.

"Transporting," Soph said tensely. She hit one last button.

Then everyone looked at the transporter pad, waiting. The Denobulans steadied their weapons.

The light rose and faded, but this time there was no black specter standing on the transporter pad. Instead Malcolm lay there, without the black helmet. He was unconscious, blood running thickly from his nose. His throat had been torn open, and more blood was streaming from a deep stab wound in his side.

"Oh, no," Ari said, already running forward. Phlox was right behind him.

* * *

He came awake gasping, hands striking out. Defending himself, trying to get away.

"Lieutenant! Lieutenant! Malcolm! It's okay! It's okay—you're on _Enterprise_. You're safe. It's okay."

It was Ari. The medical technician. Ensign Ari Cohn. Ari was holding his wrists, trying to keep him still while he struggled. "You're safe," Ari repeated, as if the words meant anything. "You don't have to fight me. No one's going to hurt you."

Malcolm let his hands fall, lay carefully back on the biobed. He was so weak. "Why am I alive?" His voice was raw: whispery, without any strength to it.

"You were badly hurt, Sir," Ari said, like that explained it. "You'd been stabbed, and your throat was cut. And you were burned. You've been unconscious for a few days."

He remembered that, being hurt. The Varoshe—her teeth like redemption in his neck. "No," he said to the ensign. How could Ari not understand? It seemed impossible that he couldn't understand. "Why am I alive?" It was an effort to form the words, to force them out. He was drugged, he could feel it: a kind of tugging at the back of his mind, a forceful reminder of sleep. "You should have left me to die."

Ari's dark eyes widened, and for a moment the young man looked absolutely horrified. Then it was like some kind of shutter fell, and he was closed off, professional. "Just a minute, Sir," he said, "I'll be right back."

Malcolm watched Ari go into the shelves that housed the supplies and Phlox's animal collection. Malcolm wondered who was taking care of them all, now that the doctor was dead.

He sat up again, moving sluggishly. Who had operated on him? Liz? Ari? Why had they bothered? He looked with numb disinterest at the bandages that seemed to cover half his body. At least whatever they'd given him was keeping him from feeling any pain. He wondered how soon it would wear off, since medication had stopped working on him.

It took an inordinate amount of work to swing his legs over the side of the biobed. When he finally managed it he swayed, exhausted, bracing himself for the effort to come.

At least he was in Sick Bay, as opposed to his quarters or anywhere else. There were knives here, scalpels. And he knew so very well what to do with knives.

He pushed himself to his feet and was left trembling with the effort, head swimming. One swift yank pulled the I.V. needle from the back of his hand. He watched the blood well up out of the wound, flow down to his fingers. It itched a little, but there still wasn't any pain. It felt strange, wrong, for there not to be any pain.

Last time, the scalpels had been in one of the closer drawers of the storage area. He wondered if anyone had thought to move them. But no, they were all still there, arranged in neat rows in their sterile packaging. Malcolm picked one up, frowning at the awkward fumbling of his hand. At least this time he wouldn't have to throw it.

_No_. He wasn't going to think about that. Not about any of it. It was too late now: for remorse or grief or anything. It had been too late the moment he'd made a fist and struck; the moment a small knife had left his hand.

There was only one remedy for rabid dogs, anyway. They had to be put down.

"Malcolm!"

Malcolm turned automatically. He knew that voice as well as his own.

"Trip," he said dully. The scalpel was still in its packaging, fisted tightly in his hand. "Trip. You're dead."

Trip crossed the space between them in an instant. He grabbed Malcolm's hand, pried the scalpel out of his numb fingers and let it drop to the floor. "Oh my god, Malcolm!" His eyes were wide with fear and bright, bright blue. "What the hell are you doing?"

"You're dead," Malcolm said again. He couldn't speak louder than a whisper. He touched Trip's chest with his free hand, as if he could feel the wound he'd made through the cloth of his uniform. "I know you're dead. I killed you."

"No," Trip said, his expression stricken. He still held Malcolm's hand in his. His skin was warm. His other hand covered the one on his chest, pressing it over his heart. "I'm fine! I'm alive, see?"

Malcolm looked at their hands, gripped together, then up at Trip's face. "I can feel you," he said. It was like there was something coming apart, shattering inside him. He realized he was blinking back tears. "But I stabbed you. In the heart."

"I know it," Trip said seriously. He let go of Malcolm's hand, instead cupping the side of his face. "But you didn't kill me. I'm here, Malcolm," he said. "I'm right here."

"I thought you were dead." Malcolm's next breath caught. "Oh god, Trip! I thought you were dead!" He was crying now, unable to stop. "And I did it. It was because of me. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

Trip pulled him into a tight embrace. "It's okay, Malcolm," he murmured, "it's okay. It's okay." Trip's arms were strong, his body warm and real.

Over Trip's shoulder, Malcolm could see Ari and—he blinked—Phlox. They were both standing quietly, giving the two men space.

"Phlox is alive, too?" Malcolm rasped against Trip's ear.

"That's right," Trip said. "Phlox is alive, too." He held him a little more tightly.

"Why?"

Trip made a sound like a laugh. "I don't know, Malc—just lucky, I guess." Trip's long fingers threaded through Malcolm's hair. "I don't think you really wanted to hurt us."

No, that wasn't right. Malcolm shook his head, pulling away from Trip. "I did," he said. His heart started hammering. He held up a shaking hand when Trip came towards him. He knew what those tremors meant. "Don't." He wanted to shout, couldn't. "Get away from me! I'll hurt you. I'll hurt you again." He'd already done so much harm. The scalpel was still lying on the floor. If only he could get to it, if only he wasn't so damnably weak. He had to use it before he hurt anyone else.

"Malcolm—!" Trip moved towards him, and Malcolm took a step back. His heel caught on the too-long cuff of the pajama pants he was wearing and he stumbled.

Trip caught him before he fell, and then Phlox and Ari were there too, surrounding him. Malcolm tried to push them away, but he couldn't. He didn't have the strength.

"Let's get you back to bed, Lieutenant." Phlox sounded completely normal, almost cheerful, as if nothing had ever happened. Gentle hands supported him back onto the biobed. "It seems you need a new I.V. as well, hmmm? Ari? Could you get me the swabs and a new I.V. catheter, please?"

Malcolm couldn't remember feeling this exhausted, it felt like a weight was crushing him, pressing him to the biobed, like his lungs were too weak to push against his ribs. His side and throat began to hurt distantly, like the pain was coming from somewhere outside of him. He felt something wet and cold against the back of his hand, then a stinging as something sharp pierced his skin.

Pain was familiar. He almost welcomed it. It made sense; it was something he knew. Very soon, he was certain, the ache in his head would come back, howling up to consume him again.

"You're not gonna hurt anyone, Malcolm," Trip said. He knit his fingers through Malcolm's. His blue eyes were so full of concern and love that Malcolm had to turn away from him, closing his eyes to shut Trip out. He was a killer, an animal. How could Trip still feel anything for him?

"Look at me, Malc," Trip said, "Malcolm, please."

Reluctantly, Malcolm looked back at him, opening his eyes.

"The QueeOralla did something to you, Malc," Trip said. "They injected you with nanoprobes. That's why you went a little crazy—they did it on purpose. They wanted you like that. They were tryin' to make you violent, so they could use you. As a kind of human weapon. But we destroyed them, Malcolm. Stephanie figured out a way to make them stop working. They're not in you anymore. You understand me, right?" Trip asked when Malcolm just kept looking at him. "There's nothing in you now. Nothing to make you want to hurt anyone." He touched Malcolm's forehead with his other hand, gently smoothing his hair back. "It wasn't you, Malcolm. It wasn't your fault. It was never you."

"Nanoprobes?"

"That's right." Trip grinned at him. "But they're gone now. You're all right."

"Gone..." Malcolm closed his eyes, losing himself for just a second in Trip's touch. He was so tired. "I'm human?" Not a predator. Not an animal.

He heard Trip's sharp intake of breath, but the hand on his forehead kept up the soft motion, so he didn't open his eyes. "God, Malcolm...You were always human. You were never—" Malcolm heard him swallowing. "You were always human."

"No," Malcolm whispered, but he was too tired to say anything else, too tired to try to explain. He let Trip's touch lead him back into sleep.

* * *

"Didn't Phlox say you should be restin'?"

Malcolm gave Trip a quick glance, then went back to studying the star charts glowing softly on the large console in the. Virinder Singh, the Stellar Cartography crewman on Gamma shift, worked on a smaller console at the far end of the narrow room. Every once in a while he would turn to look at the Lieutenant over his shoulder.

"This isn't stressful," Malcolm said.

"It's—!" Trip looked at Virinder's back then lowered his voice. "It's already Gamma shift. You should be sleeping."

"I'm almost finished here, Commander," Malcolm said. "There's nothing with which to concern yourself." His voice was polite, still hoarse, but with an edge to it that made Trip want to shake him.

"As your superior officer, I figure there's plenty about your behavior to concern myself with, _Lieutenant_." There was no way he was letting Malcolm play the rank game and get away with it.

Malcolm turned around completely, giving him a look that could have cowed a Klingon. Trip just stared back for a moment, arms crossed over his chest. Then he noticed that Virinder was looking curiously at both of them. "Hey, Singh," he said to the crewman. "Go get yourself some coffee."

Virinder looked at his console screen, then back to the commander. "But—"

Trip just raised his eyebrows.

"Yessir," Virinder said immediately. He scuttled out.

"Malcolm," Trip said when the crewman had gone. He walked over to the large console table, put his hand on Malcolm's arm. "Why the hell are you doin' this? If you don't take care of yourself you're gonna end up back in Sick Bay." He gestured at the map on the screen. "You've been down in Stellar Cartography for three days. What are you lookin' for?"

Malcolm turned back to the console, began pressing keys. "I'm looking for nearby planets with large war zones, Commander. I'm trying to find the QueeOralla."

Trip opened his mouth, shut it. He was quiet for a long moment. "Cap'n Soph said there were a hell of a lot of folks already lookin' for them."

"Well, they haven't found them, have they?" Malcolm spat. He pressed another key much too hard, and Trip's mouth twitched in sympathy as the console beeped. "And in the meantime, they're free to roam around the galaxy, abducting anyone they like, destroying them—"

"Malcolm." Trip took the lieutenant's shoulders, forcing him to turn to face him. "There are—what? A hundred planets with people fightin' on 'em? A thousand? What're you gonna do, Malc? Search every single one? And if you do find 'em, then what?" He added before Malcolm could interrupt him, "We don't have the technology we need for this, you know that. Nothin' we have could even touch them, and they could blow us outta space with a single shot from one of their guns." He loosened his grip on the lieutenant's shoulders, his voice becoming gentle. "I know how you feel, but this one can't be our fight."

Malcolm shrugged away from him. "You know how I feel?" His voice was acid. "Do you? Do you really? Do you know what it's like to try to beat someone to death, then?" He smiled bitterly at Trip's shocked expression. "No? Well, how about this: how about wanting to murder a dear friend, or someone you love more than your own life? Or how about this." Malcolm's voice had become a strained whisper, but he plowed on viciously before Trip could speak. "How about murdering people, Trip? Have you ever done that? Have you ever gutted someone just for trying to protect their home?" Malcolm turned away from him, swiping angrily at his eyes with the palm of one hand.

Trip reached for his shoulder, but Malcolm flinched away. "That wasn't you, Malcolm," he said quietly. "None of that was you."

"You keep saying that," Malcolm said. "You keep saying that like it means anything. But who was it, then? Tell me that."

"It wasn't you," Trip repeated more forcefully. "It was the QueeOralla. The QueeOralla and their nanoprobes, tryin' to make you into some kind of weapon."

Malcolm laughed mirthlessly. It sounded like a rasp. "They succeeded well enough."

"No, they didn't."

Malcolm whirled on him, storm-blue eyes wet and bright with anger. "You weren't there," he snarled. "You have no idea how many beings I murdered during that battle. God knows how many more it would have been if that Varoshe hadn't stabbed me." His hand went to his throat, unconsciously rubbing over the almost-invisible scars. "And I enjoyed it. I wanted to do it, to kill all of them. Wanted it more than you could possibly imagine."

"I do know what it's like, Malcolm," Trip said. "I knocked Stephanie on her ass and it felt great. If Mark hadn't stunned me, I was gonna step on her throat."

Malcolm looked at him wryly. "You'd never have managed it."

"Maybe not," Trip said, "but that ain't the point. The point is, Stephanie doesn't blame me for that, and nobody blames you for anything you did. So why are you blaming yourself for something you had no control over?"

Malcolm leaned over the console table, resting heavily on his bent arms. "Tell that to the people I killed, Trip. Bloody hell," he said, shaking his head miserably, "I nearly killed _you_! It's just blind luck I didn't."

"That just proves what I'm sayin'," Trip said. He moved closer to Malcolm and was secretly thrilled when the lieutenant didn't try to move away. "There's no way you would've ever done anything to me or Phlox or Ian if you'd been in your right mind. And it's not like you did such a great job of it either, huh?" He smiled at Malcolm's sharp glance of surprise and confusion. "I figure that if you'd really wanted to kill Ian you would've hit him in the head first, right? Wham!" He mimed a blow hitting his skull. "Instead, you just smacked him around a few times. Steph had plenty of time to haul off and whack you upside the head. And with me an' Phlox—well, it would've only taken a few seconds to make sure you'd really done the job, and we were both dead. But you didn't."

Malcolm bent his head down so he could rub his eyes. "I—I was trying to get off the ship."

Trip just looked at him. "You're not a killer, Malcolm. No matter how much you want to convince yourself that you are, that you somehow willingly went along with what those fuzzy bastards did to you."

Malcolm shook his head silently, still bent over as if defeated. Trip hesitated, then began gently rubbing his back. He could feel the minute tremors under Malcolm's skin.

"I didn't want to fight," Malcolm said, so softly Trip could barely hear him, even in the silence of the Cartography Lab. "I didn't. But I couldn't stop. And when I was on the planet, with all those creatures coming at me..." He turned his hands palm-up, staring at them as if expecting to find stains of blood. "When it was happening, it was exactly what I wanted."

"They were tryin' to kill you, Malc," Trip said quietly. "It was self-defense, much as anything."

Malcolm gave a tiny, dismissive shrug. "I was trying to kill _them_."

"It wasn't your fault," Trip said again. He rubbed Malcolm's tense back a little harder, tried to pull the lieutenant closer to him. "You gotta believe that, Malcolm. It wasn't your fault. It wasn't you."

Malcolm sighed, a soft puff of air. "I'm trying to believe that, Trip," he said, "I really am." He turned his head and looked at Trip again, finally. He smiled ever so slightly. "I want to. I wish I could."

"Me too," Trip said, "me too." He moved his hand up to Malcolm's neck, started to massage the bent nape. "I still love you, you know," he said, "I always will. I never stopped."

Malcolm's expression was so grateful it broke Trip's heart. "Thank you," he said. "I love you too. I never stopped, either. Even...even when—"

"It's okay," Trip said, smiling for him. "I know."

And that was it. That was all he could say. He continued to rub Malcolm's neck, as if his touch could protect Malcolm from himself. As if it could make him forgive himself, understand that he wasn't to blame.

It wouldn't, and Trip knew it wouldn't. But in the meantime he was there with Malcolm and they were connected like this, in this small way, and maybe it was enough. Maybe it would start to make everything all right.


End file.
